Everlong
by Lux Aeterna
Summary: Sam and Dean's feelings come to a head a year before Sam leaves for college. They struggle with the implications and complications of their relationship, but no matter where they go or what they do, it's impossible to forget. WARNING: WINCEST.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own anything pertaining to Supernatural or Foo Fighters excerpts. This is just for fun.

**Everlong - Chapter I**

_Hello. I've waited here for you. Everlong.  
Tonight I throw myself into,  
And out of the red, out of her head she sang._

_Come down and waste away with me. Down with me,  
Slow how you wanted it to be,  
I'm over my head, out of her head she sang._

It had all begun when Sam turned sixteen. As if out of nowhere, he had grown almost a foot in height, and was threatening to dwarf his twenty-year-old brother Dean. Dean commented unkindly that Sam was growing like a weed, all tall and spindly, but there were more to the comments than typical brotherly banter. Dean chose not to focus on the little wheedling thoughts in the back of his mind, however, deciding to brush over them with constant digs at Sam's appearance, particularly his haircut and his height. A year had passed since then, and those thoughts had remained and exacerbated themselves.

Sam wasn't a naturally brash person. He was placid and sweet, kind, with a love of animals and a gift for happiness. This fact often astonished his older brother, who was naturally more pessimistic and cautious of letting people see the soft side of him. Sam wore his young heart on his sleeve, and was hard to anger, but easily hurt as a result. More often than not Dean had upset Sam by going too far with an insult about Sam's uncontrollable hair, or comparing him to a praying mantis, or some other unpleasant, spindly insect. Sam's face would be a picture of hurt, before he'd storm off to his bedroom, slamming the door in a fine show of adolescent angst.

Dean always regretted getting to that point. Sometimes he just didn't know when to stop, even though he loved his brother more than anything. It was just so easy to take out his daily frustrations and worries on the one person he saw the most. Their father was rarely around, usually disappearing off on some job or other, sometimes taking Dean, but mostly leaving him at home with his still too-young brother. Sam had been taken on a job only twice; once involving a particularly vicious poltergeist who had fed off Sam's teenage energy and left him sick and weak for days, and another incident involving the violent spirit of a paedophile who had unnerved Sammy terribly, focusing its efforts on touching the boy, at one point pinning him to the floor. Dean shuddered to remember the look of abject horror on Sammy's face. That was the point where John had decided that Sam was still too young to go on hunts, no matter how well-trained the boy was. His open heart and changeable emotions made him a prime target for evil. This had been three years ago, when Sam was still only fourteen. Sam had been devastated, understandably so. He hated being left out of the little club that was Dean and Dad, being treated like a child. In his teenage state, he didn't realise that this was for his own protection, and because he was loved, not because he was an embarrassment.

It was a depressingly hot day in the middle of summer. Dean was sweltering, sitting in the living room of the rented house that their father had left them in only several days ago. He was itching to go outside, just to attempt to get some fresh air on his face, but he knew the consequences of what could happen if he left Sammy alone, and what would happen if their father found out. He glanced to the other side of the sofa, his gaze falling on the lanky, miserable-looking teenager that lay slumped on it like a dead bumblebee.

"Cheer up, Sammy," said Dean, not unkindly. "You look like someone took a dump in your cereal."

"We didn't have any cereal this morning," said Sam, pedantically. "We had stale bagels and bad coffee."

Dean rolled his large, doe-like eyes. As much as he loved his little brother, these constant angst-ridden outbursts were irritating. He sighed heavily and turned back to the TV, where they were watching some kind of moronic cartoon where little animals took turns in beating the shit out of each other. Sammy's legs were fidgeting relentlessly, jerking like he was having electric shock treatment. Dean stared at them, not quite irritated, but restless nonetheless. A lone curl had fallen into Sam's hazel eyes, and Dean felt an automatic compulsion to reach over and brush it away off his forehead, and just stare at him. His hand jerked involuntarily as he caught himself, blinking with shock at his own near-action. Dean swallowed, his eyes lingering on his brother, who slowly turned and looked back at him, one eyebrow raised. Neither of them said anything. Dean's face was as startled as if someone had jumped out at him, and Sam just looked confused. The moment passed, and they both went back to watching cartoons, a heavy and deeply uncomfortable silence settling over them. They were both acutely sensitive to the beads of sweat settling on their foreheads, lips and on the back of their necks. Their breathing was measured and deliberate.

Moments like this were becoming alarmingly common. Since Sammy had started to bloom into a young man rather than a boy, Dean kept finding himself being swept away with a look, a movement, a phrase, and shortly after it happened, a vile nausea would sweep over him. Part of him deeply resented this change in Sam. He'd gone from an aggravating child who Dean had loved deeply, to an awkwardly elegant young man, with a soft, almost puppyish beauty. He wasn't a boy anymore, although he'd never truly been a normal child. There had always been a very adult gravity about Sam; the kind of gravity that a person only achieves through a hard upbringing and a strong sense of right and wrong.

However, Dean was almost convinced that it wasn't just him falling into the traps of the beauty of youth. Although these moments were invariably awkward and unsettling, Sam never looked at him with disgust, or jumped away with horror. He'd just stare back, those wide green eyes unblinking, serene as a Buddha. Perhaps that in itself was more unnerving than if Sam had jumped away from Dean, shaking with revulsion and ran screaming out of the room.

It was the dreams that bothered Dean most. They were frequent, and unbearably graphic; so much so that sometimes when he woke up it took him several moments to differentiate the dream world from reality. More than once he'd slowly turned, like in a horror movie, towards his brother to be simultaneously relieved and disappointed that Sam was in his own bed, still in his pyjamas, breathing softly. Dean lived in constant fear that one day he'd say something incriminating in his sleep, but so far if it had happened, Sam gave no inclination that he was bothered by it.

"Is there any soda in the kitchen?" Sam asked. His voice was drowsy. The hot weather and the lack of things to do were making him sleepy.  
"Naw," said Dean. "We ran out two days ago. Just get a glass of water or something."  
Sam stretched, his wiry bodily slender and elegant, before pushing himself up from the sofa with something of an effort. He yawned, and Dean laughed.  
"All this doing-nothing tiring you out, Sammy?"  
Sam threw him a sardonic smile. "Nah, the excitement's just about killing me."  
Dean snorted and turned back to the TV, deliberately ignoring the way that a shaft of light had caught Sam's face. He was like an angel. Radiant. Dean felt that old feeling of nausea curl in his belly like a snake. This was wrong and he knew it was.

Dean listened to the shuffling of Sam in the kitchen, punctured by the occasional slam of a cupboard door, and then his exasperated mutterings.  
"Dean, there's nothing here, man," he cried. More shuffling. "There, like, some mouldy old bagels and some old-ass cereal. We don't even have any milk!"  
Dean groaned inwardly. He knew what was coming next.  
"How much money do you have? Can we go to a store or something? I'm starving here."

Dean turned sharply and glared at Sam. "That amazes me, considering the ton of food you get through every single day. Sometimes I swear you're just hiding it all. Like, one day I'll look under your bed and there'll just be a pile of mouldy old food."

Sam shook his head, making his curls jump in a way that was very charming. "You can't talk," he grinned. Then as an after-thought he added, "Fatty."

Dean jumped up, his expression mock-angry. "Fatty?" He pulled up his faded Metallica t-shirt to expose a set of rock-hard abdominal muscles. "This look like fat to you?" Sam laughed. Dean prodded Sam's stomach. "Look who's talkin'! Goddamn puppy fat!" In truth, Sam's stomach was as toned as Dean's, but Sam laughed and gave Dean a playful shove.  
Dean laughed in return, pulling his brother into a headlock. Sam may have been tall, but he was still no match for his brother's strength. The boys wrestled each other, laughing, until Sam managed to trip them both over with his long legs. They lay sprawled on the living room floor, laughing, and staring at each other.  
The laughter eventually passed, leaving just two beautiful boys sprawled all over each other, breathing hard from the fight and staring at each other stupidly. Dean noticed that Sam's eyes had little flecks of gold in them. Sam noticed that Dean had a spattering of freckles across his nose. The moment was so tense that they swore they could hear the other's heartbeat. Dean opened his mouth as if to say something, and Sam tilted his head curiously, a small smile playing across his lips.

"I think we should go to the store then," he said, before roughly untangling himself from Sam's limbs and striding to another part of the house to fetch his wallet and car keys.

Sam lay there blinking, his heart going at roughly the same speed as a mouse's, and blood rushing south in a way that both scared and thrilled him. Shakily he got to his feet, brushing his hair out of his face with a slightly trembling hand. He could still feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins, making everything slightly dream-like in its quality. He swayed a little on the spot, his head full of freckles and green eyes and testosterone. All that play-fight had done was highlight the horrible and captivating thoughts that he'd been experiencing for some time.  
He'd always adored his older brother - hero-worshipped him even- but there was something unnerving and horrible about the way those thoughts had changed in the last few years. He knew that it wasn't normal to think about Dean when jacking-off in the shower, or fantasise about him when he was dozing off to sleep. He knew it was wrong to study his brother's exquisite face when he was sleeping, and count the thick eyelashes that framed Dean's large, expressive eyes. It was _all_ wrong. And yet, for all their wrongness, Dean's every smile, touch and word was like gold-dust to him; invariably precious and wonderful, filling him with a joy that was both incredible and petrifying.

He could hear Dean's heavy footsteps lumbering down the hall, and tugged at the crotch of his jeans, hoping to hide the effect his brother had had on him. He flushed with shame, desperately willing his erection to just go away.  
"You ready?" said Dean, his tone non-committal, indifferent. He was jingling the keys for the Impala in his hand.  
_Is he nervous?_ Sam thought. He brushed away those thoughts almost instantly. _Nah, nah. Just my stupid imagination._ With a distinct feeling of melancholy, Sam nodded assent and trudged out to the car, head down and eyes on the floor.  
Dean raised an eyebrow. He didn't understand Sam sometimes; one minute he could be laughing and play-fighting with him, then the next he was dour and withdrawn. Dean's head was still swimming from yet another awkward, breathtaking moment with his brother. It was the fact that it was with his impressionable, underage brother that it made it as confusing and terrible as it was.

_Maybe I freaked him out_, Dean thought, and the same melancholy that had settled on Sam settled on Dean too.

The drive to the store was uneventful and sedate. Dean was blaring Led Zeppelin IV, singing along to When the Levee Breaks. His singing voice was terrible, but the enthusiasm with which he sang the words made it tolerable. Sam couldn't suppress a smile at his brother's profile, grinning and animated, trying and failing to imitate Robert Plant's falsetto. It was a wholly adorable sight. Sam didn't sing along, choosing to just tap his fingers in time with the music on the dashboard.  
In the store they stocked up on various junk food, and cherry soda, which Sam loved. Dean picked up a bottle of cheap whiskey for himself, using an ID that claimed he was one Syd Barrett. He'd given the cashier – a hard-bitten, indifferent, middle-aged woman – his best winning smile, and she'd come over all giggly, like a schoolgirl. She'd barely glanced at the ID, even though Dean was legal. He had a baby-face, which was both a blessing and a curse.

The trip back to the house was also uneventful. Dean sang, Sam watched subtly out of the corner of his eye. The windows were rolled down, making Sam's hair take on a life of its own. Dean laughed to see it, and Sam blushed and said nothing. Sam hung his arm out of the passenger window, enjoying the way the wind dried up his sweat, feeling refreshed. It had been nice just to get out of the house and stretch his legs. The cherry soda was just a bonus.

Back indoors, Dean checked the house over, .45 in one hand, holy water in the other, before announcing that everything seemed fine, and settling him back on to the sofa. He'd been sitting down so much over the last few days that he'd created what he referred to as his own "ass-groove" in the cushions. He signed with contentment as he made himself comfortable.

"That's your fat ass making that groove, you know," teased Sam, who was in the process of inhaling a packet of Twinkies. He had his long legs draped over Dean's, unconsciously. "I bet it'll be there forever, you'll have wrecked the sofa so bad."  
Dean raised an eyebrow. "I'd take that more seriously if you didn't have crumbs all over your face, piglet."  
Sam laughed and Dean smiled. It was moments like this that he loved, draped over each other comfortably, teasing and joshing, completely at ease with one another.

* * *

Time dragged on. Dean stared at the clock, startled that the day was almost gone. They'd been watching TV shows for hours, even though they were almost all repeats. The sun had gone down, and the two brothers sat in darkness, apart from the bright glow of the television. As a precaution, Dean topped up the rock salt that he'd poured all around the house, knowing full-well that night was the most dangerous time of day for people like himself and Sammy. However, the house seemed secure, and they'd had no problems to speak of yet, and Dean felt quietly confident.  
He pottered into the kitchen, leaving Sam watching The Goonies, got himself a glass tumbler, and then filled it liberally with the cheap whiskey. He didn't even care if it was bad; he felt he deserved it. The stress of living with your younger brother, as well as harbouring romantic inclinations towards him was trouble enough without adding the supernatural into it. He got out a second tumbler and went back to the living room, his heart glowing at the sight of Sammy sprawled out on the sofa, playing idly with a lock of dark hair, his gaze fixed on the TV.

_So goddamn beautiful..._

He couldn't shake the thought this time. Sammy really was beautiful, all gangling limbs, coltish grace and strange eyes. He handed the glass to Sam, who looked up at him with a slightly perplexed expression that made Dean inwardly melt.  
"What's that for?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Man, I thought you were meant to be the smart one. It's a glass, you oaf. For drinking from."  
Sam patted the bottle of cherry soda next to him. "But I've got this," he said.  
Dean shook his head, exasperated. "It's for the whiskey, genius."  
"Oh!" Sam's face was a picture of surprise. "But I'm underage!"  
"...And? God, Sammy, if I had an older brother offering me free booze I wouldn't be asking dumb questions. You game or what?"

Sam grinned sheepishly and took the glass off Dean, before holding it out for him to pour some whiskey in.  
"Don't bolt it all at once, ok?" Dean warned. "I don't wanna have to be holding your hair back when you're puking your guts out from drinking too fast." Sam nodded, guileless as a child. "Just thought it'd be good to kick back for once, y' know?"  
"Don't tell Dad I drank, will you?" said Sam, suddenly looking younger than his seventeen years.  
"Don't tell that that _I_ got you drunk!" Dean laughed.

The night went by in a cosy, whiskey-coloured haze. Sam laughed more, his beautiful young head thrown back in abandon. Dean watched him and glowed. Sam curled his legs round his brothers, the pair of them entwined in the sofa in a way that should have felt weird but didn't. Dean rested his cheek on Sam's dark head. They breathed together. Sam could smell Dean's aftershave, and sweat. He shut his eyes, taking it in. His breath smelt of whiskey.  
They hadn't sat like this in a long time, not since they were children together. Dean draped an arm casually around Sam's shoulders, and Sam felt his stomach do a flip.  
_I'm looking too deeply into this_, he told himself. _I need to control this. It's fucked up._  
He kept his eyes concentrated on the TV, not daring to move his head, enjoying the heavy feeling of Dean's weight rested on it. Sam took a long slurp from his third glass of whiskey. He felt fuzzy and warm, and strangely happy. He gave a contented sigh.

"You ok, Sammy?" Dean's voice was low, slightly slurred. He'd had more to drink than Sam.  
"I'm good," said Sam. He turned his head upwards towards Dean, making his brother move his head to look down at him. "Kinda fuzzy though." He smiled winsomely. "But in a nice way."

Dean stared at Sam, taking in every aspect of his face. The high cheekbones, the smiling, sweet mouth, those autumnal eyes.  
_Ah, lovely_...  
Against his will, he could feel himself getting hard. As ever, this was followed by a sick feeling, but Sammy was so unbearably beautiful at this moment, so gentle. He wanted to reach out, to pull his brother's alarmingly lovely face towards his, to taste him, to pry him apart, to make him his. It was a thought as vile as it was breathtaking. Sam continued to fix him with a disturbingly adult stare, that little smile still playing on his lips. Dean breathed out, then in, feeling his stomach fill with writhing butterflies. He sighed. His head spun. Maybe he'd had too much whiskey, or maybe it was just the serotonin storming through his brain. He couldn't tell.

_This is my brother. This is my brother. This is Sammy._

Sam was still looking at him, the smile gone now, his lips slightly parted. Dean shifted slightly, not wanting him to see the growing hardness he was harbouring.  
Then, to Dean's utter shock, Sam moved slightly, and kissed Dean, once, on the forehead. Dean blinked, not knowing what to do or say. Sam was studying his reaction, his eyes narrowed, his expression fast becoming one of regret. You just didn't kiss your brother, in any capacity.

"Sorry," said Sam, scooting to the other end of the couch, away from Dean's searching eyes.

"Sammy, what for?" Dean said. It came out as barely a whisper.

Sam looked him straight in the face, looking as hurt and scared as a wounded animal. "For that, I'm sorry." His bottom lip trembled, and he buried his face in his hands. "It's just so _fucked up_."  
Dean was momentarily disorientated from seeing his little brother in such pain. He moved over to Sam, and wrapped his arms around the boy. Sam was just so full of feelings and thoughts, so young and yet so old. Dean would've held him forever if he'd thought it would help.

"What's fucked up?" Dean said, his voice low and soft.  
"I can't tell you," cried Sam. "You'll hate me. You'll never speak to me again."  
Dean was taken aback. "Sam, I could never hate you." He smiled and said, "Well, unless you crashed the Impala or burnt my cds." His attempt at lightening the situation failed, as Sam turned and looked at him, his face a picture of abject fear and torment... and something else that Dean couldn't quite place.

"No, you don't get it. It's fucked up, all of this. Maybe it's because we're always together, and there's no girls about, or maybe it's because I'm a _pervert_." He spat the last word, before letting several fat tears drop from his reddening eyes.

Dean felt his heart quicken. Surely not. Surely Sam wasn't experiencing the same feelings he was. Maybe it was something else. His mind raced ahead of him and spun.  
"What is it, Sammy?" he said, fixing his gaze on the younger boy's. "It's ok, you can say it. I won't hate you. If it's this bad... then I'll help all I can, ok?"  
Sam stared into Dean's face, each freckle like a personal insult, his green eyes bright, even in the jumpy light of the television. There were no words. He couldn't say it.  
He didn't think. He just acted. In one swift movement, he pulled Dean's face to his and kissed him, hard. This was no boyish kiss. Dean's eyes were wide open when Sam let go, his mouth agog. Sam looked as shocked as if someone had just shot him. He went to apologise, to protest, to say anything that would stop Dean punching him flat in the mouth, but he was cut off by Dean pulling him back, bruising his lips with a kiss that made his stomach drop, that made every neurone in his body fire. All the blood disappeared from his head, and instantly his groin pulsed with need, while his heart pulsed with shock.  
Dean groaned into the kiss, his heart flipping as Sam opened his mouth and returned it, tongues joining in a strange dance that they'd never expected to have felt so astonishing. Kissing girls had never been like this. He felt as if someone was squeezing his heart tight in a fist. His breathing came as if he'd been running.  
Sam and Dean broke apart, gazing stupidly at each other, before both bursting into a stupid grin.  
"Did you...?" Sam ventured.  
"Always," said Dean. He ran a hand down Sam's tanned face, marvelling at the softness of his skin and the shine of his dark hair. "You're perfect, Sammy."  
"I thought you'd hate me," said Sam, quietly, eyes flicking quickly downwards.  
Dean smiled. "Never, Sammy. I could never hate you. I love you." He bent his head to Sam's neck, and kissed the soft skin there. Sam groaned, his lips slightly open.  
"Dean..." he moaned.  
"If you wanna stop..." said Dean, between kisses. "We can stop. It's ok."  
"I want this," panted Sam. "I've wanted this for too long"

Dean stopped abruptly, eliciting a small whine from the back of Sam's throat. "Sam," he said. "Are you sure about this? I mean, we're fucking brothers. This isn't right, you know it's not." He sighed, and moved away from Sam, who looked crestfallen. He fixed Sam with a hard look. "I love you. There, I said it. I love you, and not just in a brotherly way. I love you in the other way too. I want to be with you. I wanna do things to you... but it's sick. You're underage, and it's incest." Tears beaded his eyes. "What if people found out? What if Dad found out?" He choked back a sob. "What if we did this and regretted it? This has already changed things. If we... if we slept together, what would happen?"

Sam brushed a tear from Dean's cheek. "We both want this, you know. It's not hurting anyone... Besides, we've never really been normal, Dean. We never will be either. Maybe... maybe this has happened because we're different." He looked Dean in the eye. "But I know that I want this, and I want you. I _love_ you, Dean. I'm not just some stupid teenager with a crush. Please. If we regret this, then it's our own doing. No one would ever have to know." He smiled. "Besides, if we love eachother so much... then surely we'd be able to get past it?"

Dean snorted. "You don't get it. I want to sleep with you, Sammy. God, I wanna fuck my own brother. There's nothing, _nothing_ more fucked up than that!"

"I get it, I do!" cried Sam, putting his hands up. "I know it's fucked up, I know it's wrong, but if you feel the same way as I do then maybe there's a reason for it?"

"Yeah," said Dean, sarcastically. "It means that Dad messed up big-time. I guess there is such a thing as too much love."

"Dean."

"What?"

"Shut up."

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by Sam's mouth on his. He gasped, then felt himself melt into the kiss. Sam was suddenly the only thing he could feel, and think about, and smell, and taste. He buried his hands in Sam's hair, on fire at the feel of Sam's tongue in his mouth. He could feel himself getting hard again, and pulled Sam on top of him. He could feel Sam's hardness through his dirty jeans, and groaned again, blood thumping painfully in his groin.  
Suddenly, it was almost a competition of who could get their clothes off faster. Sam pulled off Dean's Metallica t-shirt, revealing his beautiful, fair-skinned body, toned and bright in the light of the television set. Dean unzipped Sam's trousers, before pulling them off in one fluid motion. Sam looked up at him with bright, hungry eyes. Dean couldn't help but let his gaze drop to the surprisingly large bulge in his brother's underwear. Sam pulled off his t-shirt, revealing his beautiful, tanned form.  
"Fuck, Sammy... so fucking beautiful..." Dean pulled Sam into another kiss, passionate and hard. He reached into Sam's boxers, running his fingers over the sensitive head. Sam bucked against him, gasping into Dean's mouth. Dean ran his fingers down Sam's shaft, softly at first, then harder, causing Sam to moan in the back of his throat.  
"Like that?" Dean teased. Sam's assent was a hard kiss, before leaning in to Dean's neck, sucking on the soft, pale skin there. Dean felt his cock harden further. It was aching now, a strange sort of pleasure. He felt Sam fumbling for his groin, dragging his nails down Dean's torso. Finally, Sam slipped his hand into Dean's underwear and pulled out his cock. Dean gaped at his brother as he pushed him back onto the sofa, running his tongue down his body. He nipped at Dean's nipples, before licking down to his inner thigh. Dean could've sobbed with desire, until suddenly Sam took Dean's cock in his mouth, all the way to the root.  
"Oh my God, Sammy..." Dean gasped, as Sam's tongue encircled his throbbing dick. He had no idea where Sam had learnt how to do that, but it was incredible. He buried his hands in Sam's hair, thrusting unconsciously into Sam's mouth. The sight of Sam on his knees, sucking his cock, was almost too much for Dean. He could feel his orgasm building, like lightening and sugar shooting up his spine. He didn't want to finish yet, and pushed Sam away. Sam looked at him with confusion.

"Didn't you like it?"  
Dean chuckled under his breath. "You're amazing," he said. "But I don't wanna be done so fast." He kissed Sam on his eyelashes, before moving to his neck. "Wanna fuck you so bad." Sam groaned at the words.  
"Then fuck me," Sam hissed.  
Dean smirked at him. "One minute, baby." He stood up, and walked to his room, leaving Sam panting in the living room, before returning with a small tube of lubricant. Sam's eyes widened. He knew now how big Dean was, and suddenly felt a twinge of nervousness among his desire.  
"It's ok, baby," whispered Dean. "I ain't gonna hurt you. Gonna make you feel incredible." He squeezed some lube into his palm, rubbing most of it on his fingers, and the rest on Sam's ass. Sam gasped at such an intimate touch. "It's ok," whispered Dean. "It'll feel good."  
"I know," said Sam. "Just never done this before... not with a girl or anything."

Dean paused, looking at Sam with love that Sam felt all his nervousness disappear. "It's your first time?" Dean asked. Sam nodded, looking bashful. Dean slipped his hands between Sam's legs and all the embarrassment on Sam's face was replaced by a look of pleasure. Dean slowly moved one finger inside Sam, whose eyes went wide before his mouth dropped open and inhaled sharply. Dean hushed him, and moved his finger slowly in and out. Sam yelped with pleasure as Dean hit his perineum. Dean grinned, and added a second finger.  
It hurt slightly, but the pleasure was too much for Sam to even notice that much. All he could do was focus on Dean's fingers, Dean's beautiful golden head, and the unbelievable waves of pleasure that were ripping up his cock and spine. Dean inserted a third finger, and Sam cried out. It was like nothing he'd ever felt. Not even touching himself had ever felt this good, not even when he'd gasped in the shower, imagining that it was Dean jerking him off, not himself.

"Please, Dean, please," Sam whined, clawing at Dean's torso.  
"Want me to fuck you, little brother?"  
Sam couldn't even speak, just nodding and moaning underneath his brother's touch. Dean grinned, and kissed Sam once, hard, and bit his bottom lip. "S' gonna be so good, Sammy, gonna make you come." Sam sobbed with need, nonsense-words spilling from his mouth, coupled with his brother's name.  
Dean arranged himself between his brother's legs, pulling them wide apart. He rubbed lube onto his cock, and into Sam's ass. He leant down, kissing Sam's chest. "I love you," he said. "I'm gonna make this good for you."  
Sam's heart hammered in his chest as he watched his brother move over him, preparing to enter him. He tried not to tense his body, focusing instead on Dean's angelic face. He was literally the loveliest thing he'd ever seen.  
Dean positioned himself on Sam's ass, and began to ease himself slowly inside. He could see the shock in Sam's eyes, and kissed him gently, stroking his face. "Don't tense, baby. It'll feel good if you just let go." Sam exhaled slowly, before breathing in Dean, only Dean.  
Dean slowly pushed himself inside Sam, feeling his brother's tightness. He groaned, amazed at the feeling of his brother. "Oh God, Sammy..." he whispered. Slowly, Sam became used to the feeling of Dean's cock. His fear faded, and his eyes rolled back into his head as Dean thrust in and out of him, crying out with pleasure every time Dean's cock brushed his perineum. Dean picked up one of Sam's legs and put it over his shoulder. The pleasure intensified, and Sam was unable to stay quiet. He screamed Dean's name, clawing desperately at his back and torso, one hand on his own dick, pumping vigorously as Dean watched him hungrily, growling in the back of his throat.  
"Dean... Dean..." Sam sobbed, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull. His noises were becoming more high-pitched and urgent, and he pulled Dean's head to his, hissing over and over again how much he loved him, how amazing he felt inside him, how beautiful he was, and _pleasedontstoppleasedontstop._

Dean could feel his orgasm building, but wanted Sam to be satisfied first. "Come for me, Sam," he growled. "Come hard for me, baby." He thrust harder into Sam, hitting that sensitive golden spot over and over again, until Sam was reduced to wild animal noises, too overcome with pleasure to even claw at Dean's fair skin. Dean felt his brother tighten around him as all his muscles tensed, and he knew he was about to come. Sam's eyes shot open, and the look he gave him hit Dean with all the beauty and terror of a gunshot. Sam's mouth dropped open, and he came violently all over his own stomach and chest. The vibrations rolling through Sam's body were too much for Dean. He cried out Sam's name, and came hard. The earth seemed to split wide open, and Dean's head was full of stars. He felt like he was about to black out from the intensity of the orgasm, but instead slumped forward into Sam's waiting arms. They lay like that for a while, panting hard until their breathing calmed to a slow rhythm.  
Dean moved himself out of his brother, and Sam experienced a poignant sense of loss, as if he never wanted to be apart from Dean again. They lay together on the living room floor, naked, sweaty, sticky and exhausted, but so happy that it was almost unbearable.

They stared at each other as if they never want to look away. Dean reached out and ran a callused hand over Sam's defined jaw. Sam was transfixed by Dean's perfectly-formed lips, and felt tears well up in his eyes. Dean pulled his little brother close to him, holding and rocking him like he did when they were little and Sam had had a nightmare. To their surprise, it didn't feel wrong or dirty. It felt like a natural progression of a strange brotherly relationship taken to extreme lengths. No one would ever love them the way they loved one another. No one would ever experience what they had, before this moment, or after it.

_Society be fucked_, thought Dean, feeling passionately protective and in love with Sam. _He's mine. He's all fucking mine and I'm his. We were never going to be normal anyway._

To Dean's surprise, Sam had fallen asleep almost instantly in his arms. He felt a surge of almost overwhelming love for the breathtaking figure he held, and felt his lower lip quiver. Never had he never felt this way for anyone. It had nothing to do with being gay or being straight; it was just love. It was weird, yes, and socially wrong, but Sam was right. It wasn't hurting anyone, and it wasn't as if they had to worry about one of them getting pregnant.

"I'll never love anyone like you, Sam," Dean said quietly to Sam's prone figure.

Against his will, Dean woke Sam up, handing the tired boy his clothes and ushering him up to bed. Sam didn't seem drunk, just exhausted, which was understandable, Dean thought with a smile. He felt his own eyelids become heavy, and fell into bed with his brother, who was out like a light straight away, but with a little smile on his face that made Dean feel like there was glitter in his blood. He draped a heavy arm over Sam's sleeping frame, before falling fast asleep, the sweet smell of whiskey on his breath, and musk on his body.

There were no words.

_Breathe out, so I can breathe you in,  
Hold you in, and now, I know you've always been.  
Out of your head, out of my head I sing._

_

* * *

  
_

_I'm hoping to make this about three or four chapters long, as I've realised that I really love writing Supernatural fiction, haha. It's so wrong, but a very fun pairing to play with. So any reviews and encouragement would be lovely. =) I'll hopefully have the next chapter up in a few days._

_-Lux_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters mentioned, and this is just for fun._

**Everlong **

_Chapter II_

The morning after the night before hadn't been the torment that Sam had expected. He'd woken up before Dean, the late morning sun streaming through the window like a strip of gold. He was clad in just his underwear, and with a stealthy peek under the blanket, he learnt that Dean was too. There was the unmistakable smell of sex in the air and his muscles ached, but it didn't repulse him. If anything, it made him smile. He'd turned his head towards Dean, taking in every aspect of that lovely face. Dean lay there like a sleeping Apollo, dozing on an Olympian cloud, masculine but beautiful, deadly but gentle, violent but kind. In the morning light, his freckles were almost non-existent, giving him the look of one of those Greek or Roman statues that Sam had looked at in an art book at school; physically perfect, flawless, imposing.

Dean shifted in his sleep, frowning slightly, as if he'd known he was being watched. His eyes fluttered open, and a slow smile spread across his face at the sight of Sam, who was looking slightly rumpled and wholly adorable.

"Hey you," said Dean, his voice deep and crackly from sleep.

"Hey yourself," replied Sam, his eyes searching Dean's face intently for some indication of how he felt. A smile was good, but Dean always smiled at him. He needed a clue.

It came in the form of Dean's right hand, running itself from Sam's forehead, down his neck, and down his torso, into the dark curls, and then wrapping itself around Sam's dick. Sam gasped, his eyes half-shut. Dean leant in to kiss Sam's neck.

Then, without any warning whatsoever, a door slammed downstairs. Sam and Dean jumped apart, their eyes wide with shock mingled with horror. Their father was undoubtedly home. Dean's thoughts raced to the living room; had he left anything incriminating down there, were all their clothes in the bedroom, where did he leave the lube, were there any stains?

Sam was in the process of flinging on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and Dean followed suit. They could hear their father trudging slowly up the stairs, each one creaking under his weight. It was astonishing how fast people could dress if the occasion called for it, and this one certainly did. Just as they had finished doing up the final button of their jeans, they locked eyes. It was a sight that would've been funny if it hadn't been so weird, and if the impending situation wasn't so terrifying.

John Winchester knocked on the closed door. "Boys," he said. His tone was gruff, and he sounded very tired.

"We're up, dad," said Dean, his voice one or two octaves higher than it usually was. Sam couldn't do much but gape at the door, and shake.

John stepped into the room and surveyed his two sons, who were both standing bolt upright and looking at him as if they were about to start a fight. He raised an eyebrow.  
"Everything ok here?"

Sam and Dean didn't dare look at each other, both hoping desperately that their father wouldn't recognise that distinct musty smell. Sam could feel his heartbeat hissing in his ears. He thought that if he looked down at his own chest, he'd be able to see it hammering beneath his old t-shirt, a tell-tale heart, like something from a murder mystery gone awry.

"Yeah, everything's fine, sir," said Dean, stoic as ever, his face as composed as Sam had ever seen it.

John lowered his raised eyebrow, and looked from one son to the other. There was something odd about them today, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He shrugged it off. His sons weren't exactly a picture of normality – he was aware of that – but as long as they weren't fighting and did as they were told, he didn't see a point in drawing out the point.

"Ok then," said John. He looked haggard, more so than usual. "I'm going to sleep for a while. Dean, you keep an eye on your brother." Dean nodded, wordless. John looked from one boy to the other again, a small frown appearing, but he said nothing.

_He knows we're lying_, thought Sam wildly. _He knows we're lying but he doesn't know what about_.

The door closed behind John with a click that seemed louder than it actually was. They listened for the sounds of their father's heavy, boot-shot feet moving to the other side of the house, and then for the sound of his bedroom door closing. When it came, Dean let out of a tremendous sigh of relief, and fell backwards onto the bed, arms outstretched as if he'd been shot. He inclined his head slightly to look at Sam, who was still standing upright like a rabbit caught in headlights.

"Oh my God," Sam choked. "Oh my God."

"I know," said Dean.

"What if he'd caught us?" said Sam, breathlessly.

"I don't think we would've been alive long enough to really find out," said Dean, eyes wide, now staring at the ceiling. His brain pounded inside his skull, seemingly threatening to burst out of his ears any minute now. This was too much, too fast. If they'd been caught... if Dad had walked in and seen them together, arms wrapped around each other, stinking of sex and spit... It didn't bear thinking about. He shut his eyes tightly, feeling the onset of a headache.

He sat up and reached over to Sam, who he tugged down on to the bed by the arm of his t-shirt. Sam allowed himself to be pulled down, and leaned into Dean, who'd draped a heavy arm around his shoulders.

"What's going to happen, Dean?" Sam's voice was small, nervous. Once again he probed Dean's face for an answer.

"I don't know, Sammy," answered Dean with a shrug. He smiled sadly at Sam, and moved a lock of hair off his forehead. "All I know is that if Dad finds out, we're fucked." He snorted. "And not in the good way either."

Sam managed a small smile, but didn't say anything. He laid back on the bed with Dean, arms entwined and silent. His chest felt as if it was about to burst from all the words he was holding back, all the feelings he couldn't form into sentences, trapped inside his lungs, a live volcano threatening to erupt.  
Dean, seemingly aware of the internal struggling going on inside his brother, turned and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Sam butted in.

"Do you regret what happened last night?" he blurted out, unable to look his brother in the eye.

Dean's expression changed from startled to thoughtful to soft in a matter of seconds. He fixed his green eyes on Sam's hazel ones. Sam felt his stomach coil with anticipation and fear.

"I thought you were meant to be the smart one?" said Dean, tracing Sam's defined jaw with his fingers. Sam blinked, wanting more words. "I don't regret it, Sammy. Not at all."

Sam heaved a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad," he whispered, moving closer to Dean. "I'm so glad."

Sam brushed his nose against Dean's, and Dean felt a rush of adrenaline sweep through his body like rain. He gave a tiny inward gasp, before being silenced by the soft feel of Sam's mouth on his. Sam felt a thrill of fear run through him, knowing that their father slept only meters away in his room. Urgency washed over them both, pulling one another closer, their kisses vital and demanding. Dean made a small animal noise in the back of his throat, and Sam felt his stomach fill with liquid gold. Sam clawed at Dean's clothes, desperate to remove them, to repeat last night, to repeat anything. Dean allowed his hands to travel down past Sam's waist, fingers running idly across the top of Sam's jeans. Sam wriggled towards him, straining into the touch, his breathing erratic. Dean felt himself getting harder, his lust for Sam eclipsing the crushing guilt for groaning at his brother's touch.

Then he pulled back. Sam stopped kissing him, although his breath was still jumpy. His cheeks were flushed and radiant.

_Flawless_. Dean's head spun.

"Whoa, Sammy, whoa," hushed Dean. Sam regarded Dean with a look of consternation, and Dean felt an almost unbearable need to just sweep him up in his arms and do all kinds of unmentionable things to him. He held himself back. "I'm not brushing you off, you know," he said. "It's just... I don't want to hurt you." He flicked his eyes downward, and Sam flushed.

"It's fine," Sam said, cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I want to."

Dean raised an eyebrow, face serious. "Oh really?" he said, disbelievingly. To Sam's shock, Dean flipped him on to his stomach, spat on his hand and shoved his hand down into his underwear. Sam inhaled sharply as Dean ran two fingers over his entrance. Sam visibly winced and Dean smirked at him.

"Don't run before you can walk, little brother," said Dean, his tone low. "This isn't the kind of thing you can just throw yourself into. Your body has to get used to it."

Sam glared at him over his shoulder and Dean laughed to see it. "There's other things we can do, you know," his voice barely a hiss. Sam grinned.

"Show me then."

The morning and early afternoon passed in a red haze. Sam bit back cries as Dean ran his tongue up and down his cock, and felt his heart hammer violently in his chest as Dean instructed him how to pleasure him with his fingers, mesmerized as his brother's face contorted with every movement, his eyes rolling back into his skull, his mouth agape with desire. Dean clawed at the sheets, before choking back a wail of pleasure and exploding in Sam's hand. Sam eyed the white fluid, thinking how strange it was that typically he'd be repulsed by it. This was different. It had come from Dean, because of the things Sam had done to him. It took on a whole new meaning.

Dean locked eyes with Sammy, his body shaking and his pupils dilated from his orgasm, the green almost eclipsed. His eyelids started to flutter, tiredness beginning to settle over him. He pulled Sam next to him, planting delicate, sleepy kisses over his mouth, nose, eyes and forehead, before wrapping his arms around him.

"Fuckin' love you, Sammy," said Dean, drowsily, before slipping into sleep.

Sam didn't go to sleep. He lay there for a long time, just watching Dean, taking in every minute detail of his face. It was a strange juxtaposition of beauty and terror, looking on that face. Long eyelashes, fair freckled skin, perfectly-formed lips and a sharp Roman nose all combined to make the face of an angel. It wasn't just his brother's face anymore; it was an imprint on his soul, burning and hitting him hard, like a blunt arrow. With every slow, unconscious breath that Dean gave in his sleep, Sam felt the arrow give a twist, imbedding itself further in him.

His teenage soul ached at the sight of his beautiful brother. It was a feeling that later in his life he would know to be love. At the time, it was just a nameless, stunning joy that blinded him from the inside out. He ran a long, slim hand through Dean's hair, wild and absurd from sleep.

He quietly dressed, one eye on his brother the whole time. Slowly, he opened the door, stealthily so as to avoid making it creak, and slipped out of the room. His stomach was gurgling uncomfortably, and he felt lightheaded from hunger. As he tiptoed towards the bathroom, his body ached in an entirely new way, but a way that wasn't wholly unpleasant. Sam felt his stomach do a funny little flip as he remembered the night before.

_Your face above mine, the taste of salt, a slow thrust, our bodies shuddering..._

He felt embarrassed, feeling blood pooling in his groin at the thought. Only moments before he had been wrapped around his brother, teasing him with his mouth and fingers. He wondered vaguely if all recently deflowered virgins felt the same the day after, insatiable and impatient for their body to heal.

_Yeah, but I bet those other virgins didn't lose it to their brother._

It was a snarky-sounding thought that surprised him. He suppressed a frown, before stealing a nervous glance towards his father's room. The fear of his father ever discovering what he and Dean had done was more palpable than any fear he'd felt as a child, scared of monsters in the dark. He could almost picture John's face, the look of revulsion on it, then anger, then disappointment. He shook his head, as if trying to expel the mental image.

The tiles of the bathroom were cool against Sam's feet. The weather outside was still baking hot, and with a creak he opened the small bathroom window, in a sad attempt at catching a breeze. Sam stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. He stood there for some time, just allowing the water to hammer on his dark hair, his wet hair falling limply into his eyes. The water helped ease his aching muscles, and before long the strong scent of sex – dried cum, lube and sweat – was lost from his skin.

Sam felt slightly sad about it, almost wanting to treasure the mark Dean had left on him. However, wanting that scent to stay wasn't nearly as important as making sure that their father didn't find out. He leaned against the wet tiles of the shower, relaxed and lost in thoughts of last night and this morning. How long had he waited for that? Months, and more months. Years.

His memory drifted to the first time he'd felt that unwelcome surge of lust in his stomach. Dean had been fixing the Impala, his legs sticking out from underneath the car. Sam had been sitting nearby, not helping, but watching. Dean had slid out from underneath the car, looking disgruntled. He had had one black streak of oil across his face, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. Sam had wanted to taste him, to smooth that smudge off his fair skin, to do all the things to him that you were never meant to do to your brother. Shortly afterwards he'd been violently sick, completely taken aback by the intensity of his arousal, and the fact that it had been caused by his older brother, of all people.

Before that moment, Sam had only ever looked at girls. Being shy and gangling, he'd rarely had much luck with them; an awkward fumble here, a sloppy kiss there, notes being passed through class while he blushed and sweated. It had never been anything like this; that violent lust that churned in his belly at night, and the feelings of love like a stab, all the time.

_All the fucking time..._

Sam felt the sheer weight of unshed tears, of months of pent-up frustration forming behind his eyes. He rubbed his face roughly, droplets of water pooling on his eyelashes.

_My brother is my lover. My brother is my fucking lover. Why is nothing straightforward? Why can't I be normal?_

The reason was simple. Because he wasn't normal, because his life wasn't normal.  
His upbringing had been a constant string of upheavals, shunted from one town to another, one suitcase of possessions, sharing the backseat with his brother while their father drove silently, poring over maps and new evidence of supernatural occurrences. There was no doubt that John Winchester loved his sons, loved them to the point that it pained him, but there had never been any option of his boys having a normal childhood and adolescence.

Instead of playing with other children, Sammy and Dean were each other's only playmates. Instead of worrying about being popular, they had worried about their father never coming back, or about not having enough food left in the house while he was away, or about being killed in the dead of night by some unholy terror. Sam lost count of the times he'd laid in Dean's arms, shivering with fear while his elder brother calmed him down by stroking his hair with one hand, a handgun in the other. That childish comfort had now become something more adult, so much more serious, and so terribly vital that it gnawed at his heart and his bones, like a bright, damning cancer.

Sam shut off the shower, noticing how pruned his fingers and toes were, his skin taking on a spongy, uncomfortably delicate feel. He dried himself roughly with a scratchy towel that might have been white once, but had now taken on a grim greyish colour. Sam grimaced at it, got dressed and headed downstairs, still walking as silently as possible, so as not to wake Dean and Dad.

The living room was untidy. The sofa pillows were askew for obvious reasons, and the two whiskey tumblers were knocked over, although thankfully they were empty. Sam made his way into the kitchen and quickly hid Dean's bottle of whiskey. Even though he was legal, Sam knew that John would be highly irritated at Dean letting his guard down to get drunk.

He poked around in the cupboards, wishing that they'd bought something more substantial than candy and cereal at the store. Finally, given the choice between a hard, unpleasant-looking bagel and a bowl of incredibly unhealthy cereal, he picked the latter, and sat at the scarred breakfast table alone, the house silent apart from the sound of his own jaw crunching repeatedly.

It was late afternoon by the time Dean woke up, showered and made his way downstairs, still yawning and hair un-gelled. He looked very young, with sleepy eyes and mussed up hair. Sam felt his chest hammer at the sight of him.

Neither spoke. Dean got himself a bowl of cereal, which he ate without any apparent relish, eyes fixated on the television, legs splayed on the haggard, disorganised sofa. Sam watched him from the squishy old armchair, snorting with laughter when Dean missed his mouth completely, getting cereal and milk all down his t-shirt. Dean smiled sarcastically at Sam, before flicking a soggy lump of cereal at him.

Nothing had changed. There was no awkward atmosphere to speak of, and after half an hour Sam scooted over to Dean, and laid his head on Dean's shoulder, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Dude, you're so gay," said Dean.

Sam raised an eyebrow and laughed. He didn't move. Dean turned his head, and gave Sam a sloppy, milky kiss on his brow-bone.

* * *

From then on, time didn't pass in a dark, depressing haze. Instead of the usual frustrations and miseries, Dean and Sam were visibly happier. John didn't bother looking too deeply into this, deducing that as long as his boys were happy and safe, then that was good enough for him. Sam was less argumentative, Dean less sullen and taciturn. It seemed a win/win situation, and he didn't pry.

Almost every night, Sam would sneak into his brother's bed the moment he knew that their father was either out of the house or asleep himself. The nights passed in an erotic haze, the dim lamplight falling across their glistening skin like silk, the pair of them lost in each other utterly. Sam would lie transfixed, in awe at the beauty of his brother's strong thighs grazing his own, watching him thrust in and out of his honey-coloured body, gripping the bed sheets. It was agony when their father was home. Choking back their ecstasy was a chore, and they would have to resort to grinding their teeth together or burying their faces in pillows before they'd both collapse, clutching one another and shaking, eyes huge and black.

They would inevitably fall asleep in each other's arms, slowly slipping into unconsciousness, whispering nonsense words intermingled with lazy kisses that always smelt both sweet and bitter.

However, night wasn't the only occasion that Sam and Dean took advantage of. Dean in particular was insatiable, and Sam was always eager to touch and taste and learn, breathing in little jumps; a sound that made his brother weak at the knees. Nowhere was too risqué. Dean frequently relived the memory of Sam blowing him in the back of the Impala, and Sam couldn't help but suppress a grin when he remembered the time Dean had spun him around in the kitchen, and delivered a handjob that was so intense and shocking that he came within minutes, making a mess of his jeans, panting with desire.

But it wasn't just the sex they liked - this whole new experience of someone who adored you doing anything and everything to make your synapses and nerve endings flare. It was the emotional side of things that truly brought serenity. When Dean would go out with John on a mission, there was nothing that warmed the blond boy's heart more than the look of sheer relief and love on Sammy's face when he walked back through the door alive. There were few things more touching than his brother stitching up his newest wound with utmost gentleness. Just the feel of Sammy's deft fingers would be enough to make Dean's soul swell with delirium. Sometimes they didn't need to fuck endlessly to feel close or loved. It was often just enough to lie on the couch together, legs tangled, fingers draped loosely together, not speaking much and exchanging kisses, tranquil as orchids.

* * *

It was early winter, and Sam was halfway through his final year of high school. It had been a relief when the hot weather had broke, but that relief had lasted only a few weeks when it was quickly replaced by a cold that got inside your bones and rattled you raw. Any remaining leaves had been scattered from the branches of the trees, and lay like corpses on pathways. Sam was sitting on the windowsill of the living room, a schoolbook on his lap, half-reading and half staring at the miserable weather outside.

Well, miserable to others maybe. For Sam it was simply an excuse to stay inside and cuddle up with Dean. He smiled to himself before returning to studying. Sam was naturally intelligent, bright and eager to learn. He loved knowledge and easily lost himself in the magic of words and facts. Dean often teased him for his bookish ways, but Sam took it with a pinch of salt. He knew that Dean was secretly proud to have such a smart brother. John took very little notice, if any at all. He was aware that his youngest was highly intelligent, but he never viewed it as anything more than a distraction from the real issues of the day; tracking down the thing that killed Mary and anything else of its kind.

Even though Sam knew his father loved him, it didn't stop the bitter little voice in the back of his head telling him that his father saw his intelligence as a tool to be used, not something to be treasured and improved upon.

At school Sam had been given several brochures for various colleges. It had surprised him. Sam had known he was smart, but it had never entered into his head that he could actually go to college. College required money and stability; two things that he simply didn't have. He'd pointed out that his father couldn't possibly afford the fees and the teacher had smiled benevolently at him. Apparently Sam had such good grades that he was eligible to apply for a full scholarship. Sam had blinked at her stupidly for a moment, astonished, a whole new world suddenly open to him.

That night he had crept to the bathroom and locked the door, application forms in hand. It was about the only place he was able to have a bit of privacy, and he had hurriedly filled in his details before dashing outside and mailing it, having stolen a stamp from his father's wallet. It had given Sam a strangely giddy thrill to do this one thing for himself after being part of a duo or a trio since he was a little boy.

So far he hadn't told his father or Dean, but that was primarily because he was more or less certain that his scholarship application wouldn't come to any fruition. The other reason was because he knew his father would be unimpressed. He naturally expected his youngest to follow in the family tradition of hunting. Sam had never really questioned that idea until his teacher had told him about scholarships.

In his head, college was like a dreamland, where he could read all the time, meet new people and do normal things like go to parties, get stressed about exams and essays, and get blind drunk and do stupid things without having to worry about getting blown apart by a shotgun or ripped to pieces by a demon.

It was a pleasant dream, but just that; a dream.

_Still, it's worth a try_, Sam thought.

Dean strode into the living room and Sam turned and smiled at him. Six months had gone by quickly; six months of love, six months of mind-blowing sex. Sam had never been so horny in his life. Just looking at Dean right now, wrapped in a plaid shirt and scruffy jeans, was enough to make his heart thud fiercely in his chest.

Dean grinned at him, all bright white teeth. "What'cha readin', Sammy?"

"Just a book for school," he said.

Dean picked up the book, and flicked the pages fast. "Ooh," he said, sarcastically. "Fascinating stuff. Maybe I'll borrow this once you're done, huh?"

"Ha, ha. Very funny." Sam snatched the book back, and attempted to find his lost page.

Dean took the book out of Sam's hands and placed it with deliberation on a bare nearby table. Sam raised an eyebrow, but didn't protest. He stood up. He was taller than Dean now by at least an inch. He peered down his straight nose at his brother, whose eyes were glinting with mischief.

"Come on, Dean," he said, his voice husky. "I need to study."

Dean continued to smile darkly at him, his eyes large and black in his pale face, freckles like a light dusting of gold. "You sure about that?"

"Yeah," said Sam, not quite believing his own words. His eyes were half-closed, and he could smell Dean; that intoxicating smell of Imperial Leather soap, car oil and sweat. It got inside his head, made him feel crazy. He sighed.

"I don't believe you, man," said Dean, moving a little closer, only inches away from Sam's face. He could feel Sam's breath on his face, noticing that his breathing was a little quick. "Come on," he hissed, low. "Take a break, Sammy."

There was a distinct pressure in the air. Sam gave a funny little intake of breath when Dean leaned in and ran the tip of his tongue over Sam's lips. His eyes were shut but he could tell Dean was smirking at him. Sam could feel all the blood leaving his brain and rushing south, making him feel heavy and light-headed at the same time, but then Dean always had this effect on him.

Studying was soon forgotten, and Sam found himself up against the wall with his trousers around his ankles while Dean gave Sam a devastatingly good blowjob. All Sam was aware of was his own breathing, ragged and desperate, and of Dean's wet, hot mouth moving up and down his shaft. He clawed helplessly at Dean's dirty blond hair, legs trembling and watching Dean's eyelids quaver.

In the dim hallways of Sam's functioning mind, he thought for a vague moment that he heard the creak of a door, and the light patter of footsteps, but he brushed it aside, feeling his orgasm starting to peak, like lightening shooting up his spine and down his legs.  
Again, he heard the click of a door, but thought it was his imagination. His breathing became faster, and he began to thrust involuntarily into Dean's mouth, before giving a guttural cry and coming hard. He saw Dean subtly grimace and swallow his load, before that smirk returned.

"_Fuck_ studying," Dean said in an oddly triumphant voice. "Fuck it in its stupid ass."

Sam shook his dizzy head and laughed, before sinking to his knees and kissing Dean hard on the mouth, tasting himself.

_Bitter and sweet. It's a metaphor for this whole thing_, thought Sam. _This kiss represents us._

Then Dean shifted onto the couch and turned on the TV. Wordless, Sam sat next to him, resting his head in the crook of Dean's shoulder. He sighed, and smiled at no one.

* * *

_And there's chapter 2 done! The next chapter will be a lot more angst than this, I assure you, haha. I'm just building up to stuff slowly. I'll hopefully have it up by next Monday. Remember to review. =)_

_-Lux_


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: This is all for fun. I own nothing.

**Everlong**

_Chapter III_

Dean was smoking.

It wasn't something he did on a regular basis, but every now and again, a post-fuck cigarette was just what he needed. He was sitting lazily outside the front door of the rented house, staring pointlessly into the blackness of the night. Obviously he had a gun next to him, but that was beside the point. Sammy was fast asleep in their bedroom upstairs, exhausted from their recent activities. Tonight Dean had made Sam come so hard that he'd cried.

He kept reliving the image in his head of Sam's contorted expression, teeth gritted together and his nails digging painfully into Dean's torso. The tears had rolled down his reddened cheeks and onto the pillow, bright and salty. The sight of that alone had been enough to make Dean climax. He felt a warm twitch in his groin just thinking about it, and smiled to himself. His heart throbbed almost painfully at the thought of Sam, lying in bed upstairs, his breathing shallow and cheeks still slightly flushed from sex. Dean had watched him until he'd drifted off, stroking his dark hair gently, blown away by the true extent of his love for Sam.

Dean heard the low creak of floorboards behind him and turned around, hand moving stealthily towards the gun at his side. A tall, slightly stooped figure was walking towards him, and he knew within an instant that it was just his father. He turned back around and went back to smoking his cigarette, inhaling deeply then blowing out a plume of smoke, watching the remnants of it dance into the night before disappearing entirely.

"Hey Dad," he said, before taking another long drag.

John didn't reply. He just stood there, staring at Dean for a moment with an expression that was hard to read. Dean turned back around and looked at his father quizzically. He knew as well as the next person that his father wasn't much of a talker, but there was a certain weight about this silence that Dean couldn't put his finger on.

"Is everything alright?" Dean said.

John remained silent for a few moments more, before giving a heavy sigh. "No," he said. "Not really."

Dean frowned with concern. "What's wrong, Dad? Got a tough hunt to do? Want me to help?"

John felt a weight inside his chest press down against his lungs. It broke his heart, hearing how eager to please Dean was, and knowing what had to come next. He experienced a crunch of nausea in his gut that he hadn't felt in a long time.

"No, Dean."

Dean's expression had shifted from confused concern to one of suspicion and unease. "So, what is it?" he said, his brow furrowed.

John paused. He had to turn away from Dean. Looking at him right now was a burden on his soul.

"I know, Dean," he said, his tone low.

"Know what, Dad?"

"About you and Sammy. I know."

There was a painful silence. Dean's cigarette burned low in his fingers, the ember glimmering sharply. Dean felt sick, and his heart started to pound uncomfortably in his chest. Suddenly his mouth felt dry, and the aftertaste of the cigarette made him feel unwell. He couldn't think.

"I don't get what you mean," he lied.

The punch in the face hit him with the force of a train. He was too shocked to even cry out, and saw stars as his head hit the hard concrete. Before he could even react, John was over him, slapping him ferociously across the face, his face red with fury. Dean raised his arms to protect his face, and was met with a hard punch to his skull. He tasted blood on his tongue.

"You little _bastard_," hissed John. He shook Dean hard, and the boy jerked helplessly like a rag doll, his eyes wide open with fearful astonishment. "I fucking _saw_ you!" Another punishing slap. "I fucking saw you together!" He threw his son to the ground.

Dean gawped up at his father, feeling a trickle of blood run from his lower lip onto his chin. He was dumbfounded, horrified. His father had seen them together. That one thought ran naked and screaming through his head. He turned away and vomited. John stared down as his eldest son with loathing.

"You disgust me," he snarled, and he saw Dean visibly flinch. "Jesus, Dean... your fucking brother." He ran a hand over his face, shaking. His son's blood had stained his knuckles. He suppressed tears. "How long has this been going on, boy?"

Dean spat the remnants of the bile he'd regurgitated on to the floor. It was mingled with blood, and he choked back a sob. "It was only once," he lied. "I swear."

Then John was on him again, gripping him by the collar of his shirt, and gave him one warning shake.

"You'd better not be fucking lying to me," he said dangerously. "Because if you are..."

"No, I swear," Dean yelped, feeling his right eye begin to swell. "It was only once. I'm sorry, Dad, I'm _so_ sorry." He couldn't prevent his lower lip from quivering. John let go of Dean, and the boy slumped to the floor, eyes downcast and shaking.

John sighed. "Dean..." he started. His tone was mild now, sadder. He sat down on the floor next to his son, who had his head in his hands. Bright droplets of blood dripped off Dean's lip, staining the ground. He made no effort to stem the bleeding.

"I don't care who started it," he said sternly. "But he's a kid, Dean. You're a man. I don't know how it happened and I don't _want_ to know, but it _never_ happens again, you understand me?"

Dean nodded mutely, still cradling his head in his hands.

"Maybe this is partly my fault. You kids never did get to socialise much, but he's your brother, Dean. He's your younger brother. It's wrong."

Dean couldn't find the words to reply.

"If it happens again, I'll know. I'll find out somehow. And if it does, I never want to see either of you again."

There such a terrible finality in John's voice that Dean knew he wasn't exaggerating.

"He's still a child, Dean. Don't fuck him up. Don't ruin him." John made a low, disappointed noise. "Now, I'm not going to say anything to Sammy, I don't want to embarrass him. But you're a grown man; should anything happen, you know what to do. You put a stop to this shit, boy." He turned and looked at his son straight in the face. "Don't disappoint me again, Dean."

John stood up, and shook his head. "We'll say no more about this," he said. "Just remember what I've said."

Dean listened to his father trudge back inside the house, listened to his heavy feet plod slowly up the creaking stairs, and heard the bedroom door shut tightly behind him. Unable to contain himself any longer, his face crumpled, and a river of miserable tears slid down his cheeks, mingling with the blood. The guilt swept over him like a tidal wave, crushing him. Their father knew. And their father would never speak to him or Sammy ever again if they continued their relationship.

He had a brief flash of a thought where Sam and himself left their father, escaped to a whole new life where they could live and hunt together, and be together without anyone knowing them. But the thought was gone as soon as it came. Dean's loyalty to his father and the memory of his mother was too strong to just up and leave. As angry and disappointed and repulsed as John was at this point, he was still their father, and Dean still loved him.

_Don't fuck him up._

The words regurgitated themselves over and over again in Dean's skull. Was his father right? Was he fucking up his younger brother? Probably, yes. Dean felt another jolt of shame hit him like a baseball bat to the face. Several more tears fell from his eyes, and landed with a quiet splash by his feet.

Shakily, Dean stood to his feet and dragged himself inside the house, shutting the door behind him as quietly as possible so as not to wake Sam. He staggered up the stairs as if in a dream, stumbling into the bathroom to survey the damage to his face.

It was nothing too serious – a split lip and a black eye. He would just tell Sam he'd fallen over. He ran the tap and washed the dried blood off himself with warm water, wincing. It wasn't anything he'd never experienced before, but John had never lost his temper like that before. Dean could see what a tough son of a bitch his father really was now, to be able to reduce Dean – who had seen everything and anything – to a gibbering, sobbing wreck.

Once his face was cleaned of blood, he walked stiffly into the bedroom that he shared with Sam. The light from the hallway cut a shaft across the bed, where Sammy lay sprawled, one arm dangling limply off the side. Dean felt a shaft of glass cut through his heart, and he gave a sharp intake of breath. In sleep, Sam looked completely innocent, as guileless as a child. His mouth was slightly open, and his long eyelashes cast strange shadows over his cheeks. He was naked, covered only by the blanket that was slung haphazardly over his lower half. His long feet stuck out at the end, a sight that in regular circumstances would've made Dean smile.

Dean sat down heavily on the opposite bed and stripped to his boxers. He gazed at Sam's face, completely without worry in his sleep. Dean felt his tear ducts sting, and his throat hurt from holding back tears.

_I won't fuck you up, Sammy_, he thought. _I won't taint you anymore._

He laid his head on the pillow, and shut his eyes tight. A lone tear escaped and slid down his temple on to the pillow.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy," he whispered. "I'm so sorry.

* * *

The weeks that followed were torturous, as painful and measured and accurate as those weirdly scientific Japanese torture devices that were intended to bring about the maximum amount of suffering over the longest period of time. The day after John's talk with Dean had been excruciating. As usual, early in the morning, Sam had snuck into Dean's bed, only to feel Dean's body freeze under his touch. He'd tried everything; cuddling, talking, mock-sulking, and had even tried to arouse Dean, but had only been met with callous swatting, before Sam conceded defeat and slunk back to his own bed, confused and miserable.

Dean had laid there until he couldn't bear it anymore, leaping out of bed and heading to the bathroom to shower, purposely locking the door behind him. Once the spray of the water hit him, and the sound of it spattering on the tiles was loud enough, Dean dissolved into tears, his teeth gritted and his fists clenched in bald fury. His heart felt like it was being ripped apart. He wanted nothing more than to storm back into his room, grab Sam and just hold him, stroking his shining dark hair and whispering nonsense words.

But he knew he couldn't. He knew now that John would be watching them both like a hawk. There would be no more leaving Dean alone with Sammy when John went on a hunting trip. There'd be no more lazy afternoons in bed while their father slept. No more nights where they clutched and gasped and kissed one another's hot skin. Dean felt like his future was unveiling itself to him, and the landscape was cold and grey and dead. These past few months with Sam had made him feel alive, had made him feel thankful for the blood coursing through his veins, and thrown the whole world into a violent, beautiful technicolour.

Giving that all up was almost too much to bear.

Sammy had tried repeatedly for several weeks to initiate something with Dean. He would lean in for a kiss only to have Dean turn his head away, his mouth set in a hard straight line. He'd try to grab his arm only to have it snatched away, and even his more subtle methods of starting a play-fight that could potentially lead elsewhere were hastily ended once Dean realised what he was trying to do.

They were still close. Dean still looked out for his younger brother, and occasionally Sam would catch him looking at him with an expression that was hard to read. Dean was officially a closed book.

It had broken Sam's heart.

After a while he'd just stopped trying. Even when he tried to talk to Dean about it, Dean would mutter something and leave the room, or perhaps go for a drive alone for several hours and return stinking of cheap perfume and sex. It made Sam's stomach churn, knowing that Dean wasn't willing to be with him, but that he was content to let some skank paw at him and leave her sickly scent all over him.

And so, Sam stopped asking. No matter how much it tore at him, or how many times he'd had to lock himself in the bathroom and sob quietly into his hands, or how it made his body tense with fury whenever Dean would stumble home drunk with the smell of cunt on him, he just didn't ask, and pretended that he didn't care.

To try and forget about how utterly miserable he felt, Sam threw himself into schoolwork, achieving straight A's with seemingly minimal effort. He spent the rest of his time studying, or looking up various aspects of the Occult on the rare occasions that his father would bring him along on a hunt. Suddenly applying for college seemed like a good idea. It was too painful staying here, wanting to be with Dean, wanting to touch and taste him and watch him while he slept, wanting to return to that old playful protectiveness. It was like a switch had been turned off between them, and even though they still loved each other, it was now taboo to even think of acting on it. A heavy awkwardness fell like snow around them, freezing and killing everything in its path.

The year dragged on, relentless and harsh, until one day in late August when a letter was left in the mailbox. Sam was usually up early in the morning. Dean liked to sleep in, and John wasn't generally around all that much. Lately John had eased up on allowing Dean to stay in the house at the same time as Sammy. Seemingly he'd picked up on the tense atmosphere that lingered like a bad smell, and it had settled his nerves, knowing that his sons had ceased their incestuous behaviour.

John had never mentioned it again to Dean, content to just let it fizzle out by itself. He loved his boys, and knew full-well that they were messed up enough without throwing a case of incest into the mix, so once he'd noticed the growing distance between the boys, he'd felt a confusing mixture of relief and sadness. The boys had been so close, but this had to be better than the prospect of them fucking each other.

Little did he know, of course, the full implications of Sam and Dean's relationship, but what John didn't know couldn't hurt him.

The weather was uncharacteristically cold and blustery for high summer, and the smell of rain was on the air. Sam's long hair tumbled into his eyes, before being sharply whipped away by a blast of wind. The envelope was a dull shade of brown, and quite large. Most importantly, it was addressed to Sam. A thrill of anticipation coursed through him. He looked around, making sure that no one (namely Dean) was watching him, and with the excitement of a child at Christmas, he tore open the letter and ripped it out of the envelope, before casting it aside, his eyes fixated on the tiny black words on the page.

By the second paragraph, Sam had had to sit down with a thump on the pavement. His head was swimming, and his heart was throbbing in his chest. He felt a wave of heat blooming in his face from sheer surprise. He grinned, and then started laughing, slightly hysterical.

"A free ride to Stanford," he muttered to himself gleefully. "A free fucking ride!"

Suddenly he felt a tremendous weight lift off his shoulders. He'd managed to get into a prestigious university, and all because of his own hard work. No one had ever helped him with his schoolwork, and considering the circumstances it was amazing he hadn't had a nervous breakdown and dropped out of school altogether.

His head was filled with thoughts of parties and dorm rooms and drinking games and girls.

But nothing good can ever last, and Sam was brought crashing back down to earth with the thought of what he was possibly going to say to Dean and their father. He knew instinctively that it wasn't going to pretty.

He set his mouth in a hard line. He was eighteen years old now, a man, an adult, and he was entitled to live his life however the hell he wanted. He thought resentfully of all the times he'd seen kids his own age out having fun, not worrying about black dogs or poltergeists or demons or vengeful spirits. He spat on the ground; this was not the life he wanted for himself anymore. He wanted normality, he wanted fun.

But he wanted Dean too.

_But he doesn't want you, Sammy_, hissed a nasty little voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Dean. _He got what he wanted and then he just threw you away._

Sam felt the overwhelming urge to burst into tears, but suppressed it. No more, he decided. No more being in love with his brother, no more going on hunts, no more rock salt, no more daggers and shotguns, no more living off crappy brand-less cereal, and no more adhering to the rules of his father who was clearly more interested in his own retarded mission against evil than the well-being of his own children.

Suddenly, Sam felt vindicated. It was him against the world now.

He scanned the letter again, and was surprised to see that he only had several more days before he had to leave for Stanford.

_Cutting it kinda close, aren't they?_ thought Sam, an eyebrow raised. Oh well, rules were rules.

He sat there for a little while longer, letting the information sink in. He felt a strange mixture of childlike excitement and bitterness. After some time, he stood up, his bones aching slightly from sitting on the hard ground, and walked back inside the house.

To his surprise, Dean was awake. He was sitting on the sofa, eating some toast off a plate that was balanced precariously on his stomach. He had crumbs on his face. Sam almost smiled, but prevented it.

Dean's large eyes swivelled over to where Sam was standing, looking tall and serious. He'd shot up several more inches over the last few months, and now officially towered over Dean and John. He'd also lost any childish puppy fat from his face and body. He was leaner, harder, a man. Not a boy any longer. There was something old and sad in his eyes now. Dean had to tear his gaze away. Just looking at Sam hurt these days.

"What'cha got in your hand, Sammy?" said Dean.

Sam felt a knot in his gut. "It's a letter," he said.

"No shit, genius," said Dean, inhaling a slice of toast. "But what it's for? Credit card stuff?"

"No, it's not."

Dean turned and looked at Sam straight. "Why all the enigmatic answers, little brother?" he said. His face was serious but confused all at once.

Sam took a deep breath and tried to settle his nerves. He felt rattled. He wasn't sure how Dean would react, if at all.

"It's a letter from Stanford," he said.

"The college?"

"No, the space ship. _Yes_, the college."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Why'd they write you?"

"I applied there a few months ago," said Sam, his voice monotone. His voice shook slightly as he said, "And I passed my exams and... I got in."

Dean looked incredulous. "You got into Stanford?"

"Yeah," said Sam. He handed the letter to Dean, his face taking on an expression that was vaguely apologetic against his will. "A free ride."

Dean read the letter, his expression inscrutable. He turned it over in his hands, the smooth paper running over callused skin, before turning to look at Sammy. He face was as blank as a canvass.

"A scholarship," he said. "Wow. Well, congratulations, Sammy." His voice was gruff. "You deserve this."

Sam didn't smile. "I know," he said.

"When you planning on telling Dad? He's not gonna be pleased."

"It's not his job to be pleased," retorted Sam. "I did this all by myself. He just has to live with it." Sam knew that he sounded petulant, but he was past the point of caring.

Dean's expression was still blank, but he nodded. "Deep down I bet he'll be proud." Sam didn't reply. "I'm proud of you, Sammy. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," said Sam. "I know." Instantly Sam felt crushingly sad. The poignancy of the moment wasn't lost on either of them.

_If these walls could talk_, thought Dean frantically, _they'd scream._

_

* * *

  
_

Dean had been bowled over by Sam's announcement. Stanford seemed a million miles away, like it was on the other side of the world, even though the logical side of Dean's brain knew full-well that it wasn't. However, the logical side of Dean's brain was rapidly losing the battle against his irrational side; the side that wanted Sam here with him all the time, never out of his sight, and his. Just his. Sam's words repeated themselves over and over in his head until Dean felt like his skull would split i two.

_Stanford. A free ride. Stanford. A free ride. I deserve this. I know. _

Sam's taciturn face. His eyes, cold. His lips had been hard. Those same lips that Dean had kissed more times than he could possibly remember, now so forbidding. But wasn't this entirely his fault? He was the one who'd shunned Sam.

_I did it to protect him. I did it because I was scared. I did it and I'm sorry._

It had been only a day since Sam had broken the news, and Dean was on edge waiting for the moment when Sam would tell their father. Dean knew it was going to be fireworks, and he was dreading it. It was only a matter of time until the moment presented itself.

Which it did, only a few hours later.

Dean had been dozing fitfully in the room he shared with Sam. All the worrying had exhausted him, and he was slowly dropping off to sleep. Without warning, he heard a crash. His natural instinct took over, and he grabbed the gun that he kept in the drawer of his bedside table. He stopped, and listened, hearing indistinct banging and crashing and shouting, which seemed to be gravitating towards his room.

Dean swallowed, putting the gun down. He knew what this was. He felt sick. He could hear his father's distant howls of anger, and Sammy's quick, biting retorts. To his surprise, Dean was shaking. He put the gun back in the drawer, and sat down on the bed, feeling a heaviness in his chest.

Abruptly, the bedroom door swung open, almost knocked off its hinges. Sammy stormed right past him, grabbing a rucksack and stuffing his few meagre possessions into it; clothes, a few book, his wallet, a small handful of photos – nothing substantial. Moments later, John Winchester appeared, his face like thunder.

"That's right, Sammy," he snarled at his youngest. "You just pack up your shit and get the hell out of here – go on! You just go ahead and abandon your family for some childish dream. Because _that's_ what really matters, right? Parties and girls? Am I right? Nice to see how much worth you put on the well-being of your family."

Dean's mouth was set in a small, shocked "o". He knew instinctively that that would enrage Sam, and he was right. The taller boy spun round, his handsome face marred by the primal vehemence that appeared on it.

"_Me_ not care about my family?" he bellowed. "What about you, Dad? You really think that you dragging Dean and I round the country because of your _fucking_ mission was _caring_ about us?! You don't know what it means to care about anything but _yourself_!" Dean's heart broke at the sight of several tears escaping from his brother's eyes and tumbling to the floor. "I have a right to live my life the way I want to, Dad! I have a right to live like a normal person, but you won't allow it. You just want to keep me as your little freak of a son just so you have fucking _company_!"

"We're not normal, Sam, and you know that. You know you won't fit in at college! You'll just be lying to yourself."

Sam's face crumpled with bitterness. "The only reason we're not normal is because you never gave us a chance to be." He walked up to John, his face only inches away from his bristling father. "And because of that, I hate you. And Mom would've hated you too."

Dean flinched. John's face fell, and all the anger there was replaced by a deep heartache. Sam had wounded him horribly, but Dean half-felt that his father deserved it. Sam was right. John never had given them the chance of a normal life. Was wanting that really so bad?

"Get out," said John, his voice emotionless. "Get out of this house. You want to go to college? Fine. But you can never come back."

Sam shut his eyes tightly, several more tears sliding down his face. He turned and looked at Dean, pleading with his eyes for him to say something, to say anything. Dean opened and closed his mouth like a fish, before hanging his head under the dangerous glare of their father. Sam looked at him like he'd just shot him in the chest.

Sam looked crestfallen. He reached down and picked up his bag. "You're just like him, Dean," he said. "I thought..." But Sam never finished the sentence.

_I thought you loved me. _

He brushed past John and Dean heard him walk briskly down the stairs, before slamming the door behind him. The silence was deafening. Dean stood up and half-ran down the stairs, opening the door and looking down the street at the retreating back of his brother, the person he loved more than anyone in the world.

"Sam!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. No reply. "_Sam_!"

But Sam didn't reply, nor turn around. He just walked away, his figure becoming smaller and smaller until he disappeared from sight altogether. Dean watched him and felt his heart would break, that he would die, right there.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispered into the unforgiving night. "I'm so, so sorry."

* * *

_Sorry if that was a bit shorter than usual, but I didn't want to drag it out too much. Only a bit more to go now. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. =)_

_-Lux_


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own anything regarding Supernatural or the poem "Time Does Not Bring Relief" by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

**Everlong**

_Chapter IV_

_**Four years later, Stanford University...**_

The party was loud and the heat oppressive, with too many sweaty bodies crammed into one place. Sam Winchester was perched on the edge of a table, watching the ensuing carnage. This party was a nasty one, and by the looks of things it was going to get progressively worse. He'd already split up two fights, and he could see two other students squaring up to each other. He debated stepping in and preventing it, but he couldn't be bothered. Someone had handed him a joint a few minutes ago, and it was good stuff. He could feel himself getting slightly lightheaded as his muscles relaxed, and he watched the imminent fight with indifference. He took another drag, taking the acrid smoke into his lungs, before exhaling and watching the slightly lilac-tinged smoke dance away, mingling with the rest of the dirty air.

Sam felt someone prod him gently in the ribs, and turned to see the smiling face of a beautiful blonde. It was his girlfriend Jessica, and he returned the smile, wrapping an arm around her slender waist.

"Hey baby," she said. She eyed the joint and gave him another prod. "Smoking weed? Naughty boy."

Sam laughed and pulled her closer, kissing her softly on the mouth. She tasted of rum and coke; very sweet, just like her.

They'd been dating for just over two years, and for the first time in his life Sam felt a genuine feeling of normalcy enter his life. Jessica was intelligent, kind, beautiful and fun to be around, and sometimes left Sam completely baffled to why she had picked him over the myriad jocks and other various studs that inhabited Stanford, prowling the corridors for pretty girls like predators. Maybe that was why she liked Sam so much; because there was such gentleness to him, an innocence, in a way. He was a boy who wanted to be loved, not mindlessly fucked every once in a while.

Jessica was also stable and normal, and that was partly why Sam had been so drawn to her in the first place. She had a loving family whom she was very close to. Their photos had been a main fixture of her dorm room before they'd got a place together, each one as perfect as an advert from a magazine; endless scenes of family picnics, Christmas's, the tree rising sumptuous in the background while her two loving parents stood with arms around one another, smiling at their children. Pictures from the prom, her father standing proudly at her side before she left the house, and lots of photos of Jessica's many friends. Sam would stare at them sometimes when Jessica wasn't looking, desperately wishing that he could have such happy memories of his childhood and teen years.

The only photo he had was kept in a dictionary, under F for family. It wasn't the most flattering photo, but as angry as he'd been (and still was) he could never quite bring himself to destroy it. It had been hastily taken by their father's friend Missouri when he had been eight and Dean had been twelve. Their father didn't look nearly as haggard as he did now in it, but there were dark circles under his eyes regardless, and a nasty looking cut on his right cheek. Sam couldn't recall how it had happened. John Winchester's various injuries had all blended into one after a certain period of time.

The three of them were clustered together in the photo, John with his arm around Dean, while Dean had his arm around Sammy, ever the protector. Sam was smiling, teeth bared and eyes wide. He looked so dreadfully young and naive, so unaware of everything that was to happen to him in later years. Dean looked pensive and awkward, a half-smile twitching on one side of his face, as if the camera had the potential to deliver a nasty bite. Despite the hardened expression on his twelve-year-old face, Dean was still very much a child here, with a soft, pale face and a sprinkling of freckles on his nose, and wide, deep green eyes.

Sam always found that he couldn't look at that photo very long. It tugged at his heart in a uncomfortable, painful way. It was a pain he associated with things he'd tried desperately to forget. Even though Dean's face was that of a child in the photo, it was still representative of the man Dean would eventually become, and those green eyes bore a hole into Sam's soul that he didn't think that any amount of parties, friends and beautiful girls could fix.

Sam broke the kiss with Jessica and stared transfixed at her lovely, delicate face. She could've been a model, easily, and he couldn't believe his luck to have gotten such a beautiful, kind girlfriend. She took the joint deftly from Sam's fingers and inhaled.

"No more for you," she grinned. "Don't wanna tire yourself out for the Halloween party tomorrow, do you?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, you're right." He looked away from her and round at the party, which was rapidly descending into riot territory. "You wanna get out of here?" he asked. "This place is getting outta control." Jessica nodded assent, and they linked hands and swiftly left.

It wasn't as cold as he'd expected outside. After all, this was California, and it still wasn't quite November just yet. Jessica shivered slightly in the small top she was wearing, so Sam wrapped an arm around her to keep her warm and she leaned into his strong, warm form. The walk back to the apartment they shared was a happy one, the pair of them joking and laughing and discussing earnestly Sam's upcoming interview with a top law school. Jessica's wholehearted support for his venture warmed Sam's heart, and he hugged her a little closer.

Once back in the dingy apartment, Sam and Jessica moved onto less innocent pleasures. It was dark inside, but Sam could make out the whites of her eyes as he thrust inside her, and see her bite her lip with pleasure. Once they were both spent, Jessica soon fell asleep in Sam's arms, and he marvelled at the perfect, tiny body that he held. Her skin was warm, and she smelt of him. He buried his face in her hair. It smelt like flowers. A golden feeling seeped into his chest, and for a brief moment he felt truly happy.

However, as he often reminded himself, good things rarely lasted, and his mind was suddenly full of thoughts of ghosts and demons. He swivelled his gaze slowly around the room, making sure that there weren't any odd shadows, and listened intently just in case he heard something suspicious. Jessica wasn't aware that he kept a little jar of rock salt in the drawer of his bedside table. Sam had never had to use it in this place, and he hoped he'd never have to. He'd been having disturbing dreams lately, however, and he felt nervous about going to sleep.

They were always terrible dreams too, involving Jessica dying, Jessica screaming for help while Sam tried to run towards her. It always felt like he was running through treacle, and he never managed to get there in time, always waking with a jolt and feeling a wave of relief wash over him at the sight of his girlfriend's sleeping form.

He loved her. He knew that. Even though she didn't know anything about his past (and he intended to keep it that way) he still loved her.

It wasn't the soul-shaking love he had felt for Dean though, and he knew that. But it was love nonetheless. He'd realised that you never loved one person the same way as you loved another. It was all as individual as the person themselves, and never the same thing twice.

It had been four long years since that terrible day that he'd left home, and his heart still gave a hurtful thump whenever he thought about it, like someone had given him a quick, nasty stab with a needle. He'd learned not to think about it, and it was rare that it came to him. When he'd first come to Stanford, it had been a constant torment to him. He'd always think he had just seen Dean run into a taxi cab, or into a bar, or walking past him in a corridor.

Of course, it never was Dean. It was just men who'd looked like his brother, but it was disconcerting and upsetting to say the least. It had torn at him, made him feel desperately lonely and for a short period, physically sick. Obviously he had never been able to confide in anyone what had happened, lest he feel like even more of a freak than he knew he was already.

In his first term, Sam remembered vividly, as he lay there in the darkness, he had had to study poetry briefly. Although he had found it interesting, it never really captured his imagination in the way politics, psychology and law had. He remembered that particular morning well.

It had been raining, odd for California, and Sam had been in the library early, making an essay plan for a piece of work about 20th century American poetry. Sam had been flicking idly through a book of poetry, when one piece had stopped him dead, as if someone had hit him in the face with a brick, knocking the breath clean out of him.

_Time does not bring relief; you all have lied  
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!  
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;  
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;_

_The old snows melt from every mountain-side,  
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;  
But last year's bitter loving must remain  
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!_

_There are a hundred places where I fear  
To go, ... so with his memory they brim!  
And entering with relief some quiet place  
Where never fell his foot or shone his face._

_I say, "There is no memory of him here!"  
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!_

Sam had felt sick, then angry, then despairingly sad. He'd read it several times over, savouring each word like a man eating his last meal on death row. He had felt his eyes start to sting, and had roughly brushed away the tears that were imminent. Images of Dean swam through his head. He'd ripped that poem out of the book, indifferent to how much trouble he would be in if someone found out that he'd defaced it, and it remained in his drawer in his room ever since. Nothing could ever sum up his feelings for Dean better than that poem, he'd decided. It had been nice to know that someone else knew what it felt like, even if it wasn't about the same circumstances.

Sam felt half-tempted to open the drawer and read over the words again, letting each syllable dance over his neurones, allowing himself one greedy memory of his brother. The brother he'd never forgotten. The brother he still loved, somewhere deep inside himself.

He looked down at the beautiful girl next to him, feeling relieved that his sick love for his brother hadn't managed to taint his love for her. It simply wasn't the same thing. He kissed her, softly, once, on her forehead and pulled her closer, her breathing like music to him. She wasn't Dean, but that was the beauty of it. She wasn't his older brother who he'd lost his virginity to, who was his first love, who he'd fought for months and months to function without. It was just the simple, straightforward love of a young man for a young woman. Nothing more, nothing less.

This was as close to happiness as Sam felt he was ever going to get. He took one last cautionary look around his bedroom, then closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

_**2 weeks later...**_

_Life is cruel_, was the only thought that echoed through Dean Winchester's head as he stared at the tense, straight back of his brother, who was crouched down on the ground next to a fresh grave. It had only been two weeks since Jessica's death, since Dean had come to fetch Sam to help him find their father, and he couldn't help but feel a terrible weighted guilt on his shoulders.

His brother was wearing a smart black suit, with a white shirt and a black tie. His hair was a mess, and he'd lost several pounds over the last few days which wouldn't usually show on a shorter person, but on Sam's large frame it made him look gaunt and sick, despite his California tan. His cheekbones were starting to jut out of his handsome face, and there were heavy black circles under his eyes. Dean considered walking over, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, saying something supportive but sympathetic, but the words wouldn't come, and his legs wouldn't move.

It had been four years. Four long years since he had laid eyes on his brother until two weeks ago, and it still felt like some twisted dream. His love for Sam, which had once given him a wild end-of-the-world elation, now seemed tainted and sad. Neither of them had mentioned the past, and Dean didn't feel that broaching the subject two weeks after the death of Sam's girlfriend was the best way to win points.

Sam was not the Sam he remembered. The exuberant, naive boy that he had been was long-dead, replaced by a self-sufficient, independent man; a man who was currently overcome with despair at the loss of Jessica. Dean had met her briefly, once, and had been taken aback by how beautiful she was. He knew how it felt to lose someone you loved, and let Sam take all the time he needed. He'd been quiet, uncooperative, but mostly unhappy. They hadn't talked a great deal in the various car rides they'd taken over the past two weeks. Sam was generally content to stare bleakly out of the Impala's windows, propping his head up on a large, slender-figured hand.

With some reluctance, Dean walked towards Sam, who he could see was talking to the grave softly. He paused and let Sam talk, then carried on walking when he could see that Sam had stopped. Awkwardly he placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, surprised at how bony it felt underneath the black mourning jacket.

"Hey, little brother," he said.

Sam turned his head slowly and looked at Dean with a gaze that was so desperately sad that Dean felt Sam's pain as if it was his own. The young man's eyes were red from crying, and there were tear tracks down his hollow cheeks.

"Hey," was all Sam could manage. He turned back to Jessica's marker, fiddling idly with the flowers he'd left there. Lilies and baby's breath, tied with a lilac ribbon. "Lilac was her favourite colour," said Sam, his voice monotone.

Dean nodded, not sure what to say. He hadn't known the girl. All he'd known was that Sam loved her and that for a brief time in his hard, hard life she had made him happy. He didn't need to ask if she was a good person; he knew already. Sammy would never have loved someone who was undeserving of his affections. He was just so full of love, so willing to love and be loved. It made Dean's heart ache to see him so unhappy, so heartbroken, and not for the first time there's was nothing he could do to make it better.

"I'm sorry, man," said Dean gruffly. "Really, truly sorry."

"Thanks," said Sam, eyes still transfixed on the grave, eyes tearing up again.

Deal exhaled heavily, and he tightened his grip on Sam's shoulder. "Come on, Sammy," he said softly. "You've been here an hour, and you look like you're about to drop." Sam gave no indication that he was even listening, so lost as he was in his own grief. "Let's go get you some food, huh?"

Sam nodded mutely, and shakily stood to his feet. He looked exhausted. Like a child, he allowed himself to be led out of the graveyard, looking at his feet, his face slack with misery. Once inside the Impala, he sat slumped in the front seat, his long legs spread at an odd angle, staring bleakly at nothing. Dean drove them to a greasy-looking cafe, where a middle-aged waitress with tired bleached hair smiled invitingly at the two brothers and felt compelled to refill their coffee cups every ten minutes, grinning maniacally. Dean grinned back, enjoying the attention even though he was meant to be behaving in a sombre fashion. Sam didn't even notice. Dean ordered himself a cheeseburger, and ordered Sam a plate of pancakes, which he remembered Sam loved. Sam ate a few bites, and poked at the rest of the stack with his fork morosely.

Dean eyed him with concern, before saying, "Sam, come on, man, you barely touched them."

Sam shrugged. "I'm just not hungry, I guess."

"You're looking awful skinny, Sam," said Dean. "Come on, just another bite." He tried his best charming smile, but Sam's face was completely un-amused.

"My girlfriend just died, Dean," he said, in a tone colder than liquid nitrogen. Dean's smile died.

"I know, and I'm sorry, and I can't imagine how shitty you must be feeling right now, but you can't just waste away like this." He thought for a moment. "Do you think Jessica would wanna see you like this?"

Sam's nostrils flared and he jumped up from the table with a face like fury.

"You didn't even fucking _know_ her," he snarled. "So don't fucking tell me what you think she'd want." Without another word he stormed out of the cafe, leaving Dean sitting there, utterly startled, eyes wide with shock. He hadn't expected _that_. Logically he should've seen it coming, but Dean's sense of logic often went straight out the window when it came to his brother. With a sigh, he left the money for their food, took one last immense bite of his burger and followed Sam outside, anticipating an argument.

Sam was leaned against the passenger door of the Impala, his face in his hands and his shoulders heaving rhythmically. He was crying. There was nothing, Dean realised, that he could do or say to make this alright. He wrapped his arms around his tall brother, feeling the bones jutting beneath his clothes and just let him weep. Sam's fingers clutched Dean's back, and Dean could feel him shaking.

"My girlfriend... my fucking girlfriend... I couldn't save her, Dean... I tried and... and..." A desperate sob escaped Sam's lips. "She died just like Mom, and I'm so fucking pathetic that I couldn't even help her."

Dean pressed his lips together to stop himself from weeping. "There's nothing you could've done, Sam," he said. "Whatever killed Jessica... it's just too powerful. If you'd tried to fight it, you would've died too. It's not your fault, Sammy. It could never be your fault."

Sam fixed him with a look so sad that it made him look like a child. "I don't know," he said. His face crumpled again. "I just wish..." He looked away from Dean, eyes squeezed tightly together. "I just wish I could see her one last time."

In a moment that was almost unbearably tender, Dean wiped away a stray tear from Sam's streaked face. Sam's bruised, puppyish expression hit Dean as hard and sweet as a shot of morphine, and he withdrew his hand after lingering a second too long. He felt an old, familiar, unwelcome surge of dopamine scream through his nervous system, and took a step back.

He took a deep breath. Sam's eyes were swollen and red, and all of a sudden his little brother looked rather grey.

"Come on, Sammy," he said, his voice quavering slightly. "You look like you're about to drop. Let's go book ourselves into a motel someplace. You need to get some rest."

Sam nodded, lower lip still shaking somewhat. "Ok," he said. "Sure."

To Dean's surprise, Sam was out like a light as soon as he'd laid his head down on the hard motel pillow. Dean had expected Sam to fight sleep the way he'd used to as a kid, struggling to stay awake out of sheer stubbornness despite the way his eyelids would flutter, heavy like lead over his eyes. Dean guessed that Sam was just too exhausted emotionally and physically to stay awake. He let Sam sleep, amusing himself by watching crappy Friends re-runs and trying to ignore the way that one lone lock of hair tumbled into Sam's eyes, or the way his back raised slightly when he breathed deeply in his sleep.

_No_, he thought. _No fucking way. Not now. Jesus Christ, his girlfriend just died and you're looking at him like some dirty old perv? Get a grip, Dean_.

Several painful hours passed, Dean alternately watching Sam, and then forcing himself not to watch him, before Dean finally had enough and headed out of the motel room to get a coffee. Preferably the Irish variety. He wandered back about twenty minutes later, with two takeaway cups of coffee and a newspaper stuffed under the crook of his arm, to find Sam awake and sitting up on the bed, absent-mindedly staring at the TV.

"Oh, there you are," he said. "I was wondering where you'd gone."

Dean felt a lump in his throat. "Went to get you some coffee," he said, gruffly.

Sam took his coffee from Dean, a tiny, grateful smile playing on his lips. "Thanks," he said. He didn't drink it; it was too hot just yet, but he revolved the cardboard cup in his hands, before looking at Dean with a strangely determined gaze. It was the first time in days that Sam's face had taken on an expression that wasn't heartbreak or anger. "I want to start hunting again, Dean."

Dean looked surprised, but relieved. He smiled. "I've been waiting for you to say that, Sammy."

"I tried so hard to fit in at Stanford," said Sam, looking bitter. "You have no idea how hard I tried. I did all the right things; I played sports, I met girls, I worked hard, I went to parties, I met Jessica." A shadow of pain crossed his face. "But it didn't matter. I never really fit in, no matter how many friends I had or how good I was at schoolwork." He sighed. "I'm a freak, Dean. Just like you. Just like Dad. After... after that _thing_ killed Jessica I knew that my life wasn't destined to be normal. I wish it could be, Dean, more than anything, but now I know what I am, and what I have to do."

Dean was silent, studying his brother's earnest, angry face.

"Dad raised us like warriors for a reason, Dean," Sam continued. "And as much as I'm still angry at him for basically disowning me, I'm grateful that he trained us the way he did." Another sigh. "We're hunters. And I'm going to find that thing that killed Jessica and Mom, and I'm gonna destroy it." His face was hard, anger flicking underneath the surface of his eyes.

Dean didn't know what to say. He sat down next to Sam on the bed, an unreadable expression on his face. "Are you sure?" he said. "Cos that could just be the grief talking, Sam."

Sam shook his head, almost aggressively. "No," he said. "This is what I want. I want us to be hunters together. I want to help you find Dad."

Dean felt his stomach do a sick little jump at the word "together", but kept his face passive. Inside, he was screaming with joy. His Sammy was back, after so long, after years of waiting and hoping and suffering without him, he was finally back. The brothers locked eyes for a second; a second that was both uncomfortable and exhilarating.

"I'm glad, Sammy," said Dean.

"Sam. It's Sam now."

And then Sam smiled; the first true smile that had crossed his face in weeks, and for the first time in a long time, there was a glimmer of hope on the horizon for Dean.

That night, Sam slept. It was all open-road from here.

* * *

_Sorry that chapter was so short and bereft of the usual flowery language that I use. I've only got one more chapter to go and I needed to get the reconciliation out of the way as soon as possible so I could start it. Thanks again to all my wonderful reviewers. Much love!_

_-Lux_


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just for fun._

**Everlong**

_Chapter V_

Several months had passed since Jessica's death, and slowly but surely Sam seemed to be coming back to life. He laughed and smiled more, although he was still plagued with terrible nightmares from time to time. They were becoming less frequent, but when they happened he would wake up in a cold sweat, gaping with horror, not even able to cry out. The dreams were always the same; Jessica trapped on that ceiling, her face frozen forever in an expression of terror and disbelief, her blood dripping from a gaping wound in her stomach, slowly, and thick as treacle, _drip drip drip. _Sam would always reach desperately for her, only for the room to burst into flames, and then he'd wake up, shaking violently.

It was moments like those that made him crave physical affection. After the initial shock of the nightmare had worn off, Sam would always turn and look at Dean, who was either fast asleep or who would be staring back at him with an expression that was a strange medley of confusion, concern and something else that Sam couldn't quite put his finger on.

Of course, they never discussed the _indiscretions _that had occurred when they'd been younger. There were always strange, lingering looks in moments of silence, and smiles that went on just a second too long, but neither of them ever mentioned it. Sam sometimes felt like he wanted to explode, just to have Dean acknowledge it. He knew that he needed his brother, but he was unsure in which way he needed him, and whether it was _want_, not just need.

On the rare occasions where Sam didn't dream about Jessica, he dreamt about Dean, and would always wake up riddled with guilt and nausea, and nursing an erection that throbbed painfully between his legs. Typically he would use it as an excuse to go have a shower and relieve himself, the scalding water dripping off his nose as he would closed-eye masturbate thinking about the blonde man in the next room. He always felt overwhelmed after his orgasm. It always involved myriad feelings; guilt about Jessica, about wanting someone so badly so soon after her death, anger towards Dean for making him feel this way, bitterness that Dean had pushed him away so long ago and disgust at himself for being so weak.

Dean gave Sam no real indication of how he felt about it all. He seemed relatively normal (by Dean's standards anyway), full of innuendos and smart-ass comments, taking great pleasure in teasing his younger brother and getting hideously drunk now and again, which usually culminated in him disappearing with a barmaid or some other girl for several hours, before returning smelling of cheap perfume, sweat and sex, with a large, smug grin plastered to his face. It was a smell that turned Sam's stomach every time without fail, and he would be in a bad mood with Dean until sometime the next day, even though Dean pretended not to notice.

Today they were in Maine. It was nearly April, but there was still a harsh chill in the end, and white snow clouds were collecting menacingly on the horizon. Sam hated snow. Being so tall and slim made it difficult for him to keep warm. Dean, being shorter and stockier, seemed to cope with it better. Plus Sam felt that he'd gotten far too used to California's warm climate in the several years he'd lived there.

Dean had parked the car briefly on the hard shoulder of a deserted road. They hadn't seen another car for miles, and in normal circumstances it would've made anyone nervous. However, they were Winchesters, and the words "normal" and "nervous" didn't enter into their vocabulary. Dean was glaring with intent at a crumpled map while eating a biscuit, dropping crumbs all down it. Sam was flicking through their father's journal idly. He'd read it countless times, to the point where the words were ceasing to have any meaning, just becoming repetitive symbols and pictures and not much more.

"I swear, Sammy," said Dean, sounding disgruntled. "It's around here somewhere. It just doesn't seem to be on the map."

"Well, it's an old place. There's no reason why it would be."

Sam and Dean were in the process of finding an abandoned farmhouse which was seemingly inhabited by a particularly hideous spirit that lured the owners of broken down cars off the road, in a farcical show of friendliness. The unfortunate people had all met grisly ends, their faces all frozen in an expression of utter terror, torsos slashed to pieces. They'd all died of massive blood loss. The police remained baffled by it. Obviously there were never any witnesses, or any survivors, or any fingerprints. It seemed a lost cause until the Winchester brothers started to take an interest in it. After some digging by Sam on his laptop, it appeared that the spirit in question seemed to be a David Von Raumer, a farmer who had been found brutally murdered shortly after his disappearance in the surrounding countryside. His stomach had been slashed open, and he'd died from loss of blood. It seemed as if his angry spirit was taking revenge for his brutal death, but taking revenge on people who were wholly innocent.

"Well, wherever that damn farmhouse is, looks like it'll be a simple salt-and-burn," said Dean. "Didn't you say that his wife had him buried on the land, near some tree that had their initials carved into it?"

"Yeah," replied Sam. "It'd be sweet if it didn't involve burning the body of a murderous ghost."

Dean gave a small snort of amusement, and turned his head to look at the setting sun. The light caught his green eyes, making them glow in a way that was unsettlingly dazzling. The little flecks of gold around his pupils were briefly illuminated. Sam gawped at him stupidly for a moment, reminded of Homer's description of the gods in The Iliad, their eyes shining, and terrible in their beauty. Dean _was_ beautiful beyond the reach of mortal men. Sam felt his pulse quicken. His mouth felt dry.

"Sun's going down," said Dean, who either hadn't noticed Sam's gormless expression or was pointedly ignoring it. "We'd better start looking for this place. I don't wanna start driving and end up getting lured off the road by some asshole of a spirit."

Sam nodded assent, opened the car door and walked round to the boot. He pulled the lid up, picking up a pistol loaded with rock salt, a medium-sized hatchet, a shovel and a sawn-off shotgun. Dean locked the Impala before picking up similar weapons. He shot a small smile at Sam.

"Just another day's work, huh?" he said. "Y' know, sometimes I wish I could just work in real estate or something."

"Really?" said Sam, eyebrow raised, incredulous.

"For someone so smart, you really are a moron sometimes, Sammy," said Dean, shaking his head.

"It's not my fault that you don't know how to enunciate sarcasm properly," retorted Sam, giving Dean his best sardonic smile, but secretly rather embarrassed to have not gotten the joke.

"Ooh, big words, college boy," muttered Dean, rolling his eyes. He checked the barrel of his rock-salt pistol, making sure it was fully-loaded, his eyes alert and serious. "We need to be careful with this one, Sammy," he said. "Apparently he's a quick bastard, and you just know he won't like us diggin' him up. Son-of-a-bitch."

"Yeah," said Sam, looking thoughtful. "All those people... they didn't deserve what happened to them." The sun was almost gone now, mostly sunk below the horizon. The sky was wild with violet and orange bursts of colour. Dean went to say something, but paused. The colours of the sunset had whispered glimmering lights on Sam's dark, wild hair, licking around his face like bright flames. Dean swallowed.

"Well," he said, his voice low. "A lot of shitty things happen to people who don't deserve them." A dark look crossed his handsome face. "That's life."

Sam didn't have a reply to this. He looked away from Dean, his eyes shadowed and sad. He breathed in, the freezing Maine air almost startling him. He zipped up his jacket. "You ready?" he asked. Dean nodded, and with one last look at the map, the brothers set off into the darkening forest, imposing, green and black. It smelt damp and fresh.

They walked for miles, listening intently to the surrounding sounds of the woodland. It was practically silent, the quiet only pierced occasionally by the sharp squawk of a bird, or the sounds of twigs snapping under the brothers' large feet. Their breathing was measured and quiet, despite the exertion of walking through miles of overgrown forest. They were old hand at this now, and somewhat jaded at things that would give other people nightmares for their rest of their lives. Eventually, Dean came upon what appeared to be a path that had been overgrown with plants and creepers for a long time. He pulled a machete out of his backpack, and slashed at the blockage.

Sam kept an eye out, shining his torch around the now pitch-black forest. He knew they were close, and could feel the adrenaline begin to hiss through his bloodstream, pleasurable, exhilarating and fearful all at once. It tingled down his arms, and he felt slightly lightheaded.

After several minutes of hacking, the path became clearer, and wide enough for a man to walk through. The brothers continued to walk in silence, watching and listening, shining their torches, until suddenly a dilapidated building loomed ominously up ahead of them. They stopped, and looked at each other with expressions that were somewhere between trepidation and relief. Dean's face, illuminated in the torchlight, grinned at Sam, giving him the look of a very handsome skull. Sam almost laughed, but caught himself.

"Let's get looking for that tree," said Dean, his voice deceptively loud in the painful silence of the forest. "Smoke that bastard."

Sam nodded. They decided not to separate. It was dangerous doing it at the best of times, in broad daylight, but it was monumentally stupid to try it at night, next to a farmhouse that was haunted by a homicidal spirit with a penchant for butchery.

It took around twenty minutes to locate the tree. For a moment Sam and Dean just stared at it, shining their torches on the love-heart that had been inscribed into it. Sam felt a pang in his chest; someone had loved the soul of the spirit they were about to destroy once. They'd been happy. He felt he could understand the anger of someone who'd been murdered and taken away from the person they loved. He could see how years of fury, regret and despair could turn you into a monster. He stared at the headstone at the trunk of the tree.

Dean had apparently noticed the soft look on Sam's face and frowned at him. "Sam, stop feeling sorry for them," he said. "They're not the same as they were when they were alive. It's not the same thing. This Von Raumer guy... he might have been good once, but now he kills innocent people. You shouldn't pity him."

"I know," said Sam, quietly. "But monsters are made, Dean, not born."

"I bet you wouldn't be saying that if he was carving his initials into your guts," said Dean, darkly.

Sam didn't reply, and started to dig. Dean continued to frown, but helped Sam, heaving piles of dirt away from the old grave, their torches upright, casting weird shafts of light around the forest, and creating nightmare shadows. Despite the biting cold, Sam and Dean began to sweat from the effort of digging. Their shoulders ached, muscles cording uncomfortably at the neck, their blood turning to battery acid. Finally, they hit wood. It sounded hollow, and was unmistakeably a coffin. Dean pried off the lid and stared down at the white bones inside, completely indifferent. It was something he'd seen dozens of times before; it was nothing new or shocking or special.

He climbed out of the grave, followed swiftly by Sammy who was still gazing downwards with an expression that was almost tender.

"What the hell, Sammy?" snapped Dean, exasperated. "Why're you getting so fucking mushy over a goddamn salt-and-burn? What the hell's so special about this?"

Sam glared at Dean. "Just because I have to destroy something doesn't mean I have to feel nothing about it, ok?" He sighed, aggravated. "Just salt and petrol it already. I've got the matches."

Dean shook his head, his annoyance subdued, and poured the rock salt around the corpse. The temperature seemed to drop a little lower, and Dean felt something icy slip down his spine. It was definitely not a good feeling. Feeling strangely nervous, he poured the petrol on the corpse, making sure it was covered.

Suddenly, Dean gave a blood-curdling shriek, and Sam visibly flinched. Dean looked down at his stomach, to see blood dripping onto the waist band of his jeans. Sharply, he tugged up his shirt to see that he'd been slashed. He felt sick, but yelled at Sam, "Light him up, Sammy! Fucking light him up!"

Sam gawped at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, before struggling to light a match. Eventually the match flared into being, and Sam threw it into the grave, where the body instantly ignited. To Sam's horror, he saw the spectre of Von Raumer standing behind Dean. The spirit started to flame, but it didn't struggle or wail as spirits often did. It simply stared at them hungrily, and then smiled in such a way that made Sam's blood freeze in his veins.

He turned back to Dean, who had slumped to his feet. Sam tugged up his shirt and gasped at the wound. It wasn't terribly deep, and he knew that Dean would be alright, but the sight of his brother in such pain was almost disorientating.

"Dean, Dean, it's ok, it's ok," Sam cried breathlessly. "Come on, get up, we need to get you stitched up."

"I know, Sammy," said Dean, who sounded almost pissed off. He had one arm over the wound, trying to stem the blood flow. He seemed to be losing a surprising amount of blood for a cut that hadn't pierced any organs or major vessels. Sam grabbed the torches, sticking one in Dean's free hand, and then supported his brother, practically dragging him through the forest, away from the burning corpse. It took a long time to get back to the Impala, by which time Dean was very weak and starting to become incoherent from shock, his eyes rolling around in his skull like snooker balls. Sam placed Dean in the back seat of the Impala, and was startled at how pale his brother's face was. The freckles on his nose stood out like bruises in the whiteness and he suddenly looked very hollow-eyed.

"Where's the nearest motel?" mumbled Dean, in a moment of clarity. "You can't stitch me up here, man."

"It's miles away," said Sam. "You're in pretty bad shape, Dean. I'm gonna have to stitch you up here, whether you like it or not." Dean groaned dully in response, before reaching under the front seat, shakily and taking picking up a hipflask. Whatever was in it smelt highly alcoholic – probably whiskey – and Dean took several deep glugs from it, before grimacing at the taste, and also the sight of Sam preparing a needle and thread from their first-aid kid.

Sam laid Dean back, pulling his brother's shirt up to his armpits. Dean's stomach was an expanse of toned, fair flesh with a line of light hair running down into his jeans. His beautiful body was marred by the cut, which although was not seriously deep, was nasty and still bleeding, although not with the same speed as it had been, which gave Sam some relief.

"Stay awake," Sam snapped at Dean, who was looking groggy. "I don't want you passing out on me."

Dean snorted in response, and stared at the car roof, hissing with pain every time the needle sank under his skin, before being slowly drawn back out. It took almost an hour to sew up the wound, by which point Dean seemed to be slipping in and out of sleep, partly from exhaustion, partly from losing blood.

"You still with me, Deano?" said Sam, rubbing some antiseptic lotion on to the sewn-up slash. Dean raised his head and looked at Sam with a tired, displeased gaze.

"Yeah, I'm still in the land of the living," grumbled Dean. "I'm real tired though."

"From the blood loss, probably," said Sam.

"No shit, Captain Obvious," snapped Dean. "God, I feel like hell. That cut fucking _hurts_."

Sam threw Dean a concerned look. "Maybe we should get you to a hospital. I mean, you've bled kind of a lot. You might need a transfusion."

Dean stared at Sam with an expression of utter contempt. "Sam, I'm up and talking, aren't I? Do you really think that I'm such a pussy that I need to go get a damn transfusion?" He gave Sam a withering look and Sam felt his cheeks go hot under his brother's gaze.

"Okay, okay," he conceded. Dean looked terribly pale and was very tired, but he seemed fine and wouldn't have any lasting damage, apart from a new scar to add to his already large collection. Sam put the antiseptic cream back in their first-aid box and left Dean lying in the back seat, staring up at the Impala's ceiling with drowsy, shadowed eyes.

"If you crash the Impala, I'll end you," grunted Dean.  
Sam snorted with mild amusement at his brother. Even after a nasty injury, his car was still debatably the most important thing to him. The drive was uneventful and quite long, with Sam trying his hardest to avoid potholes in the road. Whenever he hit one, Dean would make a small, disgruntled sound, one hand over his gashed stomach. It seemed to be clotting well, however, which was a blessing.

After a half-hour drive, Sam spotted a grim-looking motel at the side of the road, its cheap neon sign flashing and humming. He pulled into the car park, and dug around in the glove compartment for one of the many fraudulent credit cards. After several seconds of deliberation, Sam decided to be Roger Waters today. He peered into the back seat to see that Dean's eyes were shut. Sam froze for a moment, before feeling a wave of relief wash over him as he watched Dean's chest rise and fall rhythmically. He gave Dean a little nudge with his knuckles, and his brother's eyes fluttered open sleepily. He looked dazed.

"We here already?" said Dean, his voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah," said Sam. "Want me to help you out?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "I can walk fine, thanks," he said. "I've had worse. You know that."

Sam shrugged, one-shouldered, still looking at Dean with concern. "Well, ok then," he said. "If you really think you're alright."

"I'm fine," snapped Dean gruffly, and Sam fell silent.

Once inside the motel, Sam paid for the nicest room possible, which in this case meant the room with the least insects, a door that locked and hot, running water. It was a strangely decorated room; red and cream, which gave it a wholly girly look that Sam wasn't impressed by. Dean didn't seem to notice, as he was half-asleep, rubbing his eyes and looking sulky as a child. Sam helped Dean get into one of the beds, as bending down seemed to cause him a fair amount of pain.

"I'm not a fucking old woman, Sammy," huffed Dean. He was embarrassed, Sam could tell. Dean was always so self-sufficient, so independent and so used to taking care of his younger brother that being treated like he was an invalid in any form made him seethe with shame.

"Stop being so stubborn," said Sam. "You got hurt. I'm just seeing you're okay, man."

Dean looked into his brother's face. His expression was one of such care and concern that it almost brought tears to his eyes. He shrugged them away, feeling ashamed of himself. He could feel Sam's soft hazel eyes on his own, and could feel himself start to get slightly lightheaded, his pulse quickening.

"Yeah, I know," said Dean, softly, looking somewhat bashful. "Sorry Sammy."

Sam's face softened, and he smiled. "It's ok," he said. It was late, and there was a slight chill in the air from the open window. Sam crossed the room in two long strides and shut it, before turning to Dean. "Look, I'm kinda hungry. I'm gonna go see if there's a vending machine around here or something." As if on cue, Sam's stomach growled, and Dean smiled. "Are you going to be ok here?" said Sam.

"Yeah," said Dean. "I'm gonna go to sleep, I think. I feel like hell."

"You look it."

Dean gave Sam a sardonic look, and gingerly pulled his blood-stained t-shirt off, looking at it with disdain before flinging it across the room. Dean hadn't thought anything of it until he glanced at Sam, to see his brother's mouth fixed in a small "o", as if startled. Suddenly Dean felt very naked and vulnerable; a feeling he was not used to and certainly didn't like. Sam blinked at him like a deer caught in headlights, before opening and closing his mouth with no sound coming out. He turned, all long legs and wild hair, and made to leave the room, fists strangely clenched. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Going to look for food," he said, his voice low and controlled. "Rest up, Dean." Then he opened the door, and slipped out like a thief, leaving Dean staring at the shut door, utterly baffled, and his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. He could feel his pulse hissing inside his wound, each beat like a tiny needle of pain.

Wincing from pain, Dean removed his jeans – filthy from tramping through the forests and bloody – and slipped under the covers of his single bed. To his surprise, it smelled clean, which he hadn't expected from such a grim-looking motel.

He felt exhausted, but at least Sam had done a decent job of sewing him up. Dean had been lucky that none of his muscles had been damaged. Upon closer inspection, his wound didn't look as deep as he'd expected, although it was still very painful. Without warning, his mind slipped back to the backseat of the Impala, looking down at Sam leaning over him, Sam's young face screwed up with concentration as he threaded the needle and stitched up his brother's stomach. Sam's long, gentle fingers danced through Dean's head. The thought that so recently they'd been on his skin left imprints like fire. Dean felt his mouth go dry and reached for the tumbler of water that was by the side of his bed. He held it to his temple and shut his eyes, feeling himself unconsciously relive Sam's expression of concern and what Dean suspected was love, feeling his fingers brush his pale skin. He saw the little flecks of green in Sam's hazel eyes.

Dean sighed, and reached to flick off the light. His eyelids fluttered with exhaustion, and the last thing he thought of before sleep enveloped him was Sam. Only Sam.

* * *

Sam was gone for longer than he expected. As it happened, he did find a vending machine, and had got himself a wealth of incredibly unhealthy snacks, along with a cup of hot chocolate. It was bitterly cold by that point, and well past midnight. He assumed that by now Dean was fast asleep, and that it was safe enough to head back to the room and go to sleep.

Sam's head felt like it was pulsing with thoughts. He'd always been a deep thinker ever since he was a child, and frequently lost himself in ideas, memories and thoughts. He dwelled on things too much, he felt, but it wasn't like a switch that he could magically turn on and off. It was simply the way he was, constantly dissecting situations and conversations and emotions, and trying to make sense of it all.

Sam frowned at the black night sky, brows furrowed. This all felt so familiar and comfortable, but it was also something that had broken his heart, something that he had spent months, years, getting over. Not to mention the fact that Jessica had died several months ago. He felt like he was doing a huge disservice to her memory. He couldn't help imagining the look on her face if she had ever found out that Sam had spent a portion of his teenage years alternately fantasising about and fucking his elder brother. It was an expression that always stopped him dead, even if it was imaginary.

Sam had never understood why Dean had suddenly turned so cold all those years ago. It had seemed like one minute they had been desperately in love with each other, spending every moment they could together, being astonished at the depth of their feelings for one another, and then the next minute Dean was pushing him away, giving him dark, cold looks whenever Sam tried to be affectionate, and avoiding being close to Sam at all. The final crushing blow had been Dean sleeping with other people, and most painfully, being blatant about it – talking loudly and obviously about some gorgeous blonde he'd bedded the night before, or describing graphically all the things he'd done with them.

It was the smell that had bothered Sam the most. Dean's words could easily be ignored, but the sour odour of cheap perfume, sex and sweat had turned his stomach. More than once Sam had had to retreat to the bathroom to throw up, retching until his throat was sore and until tears had spilled down his cheeks without him even being aware of it.

To say that it had been painful would be an understatement. It had broken his heart in two.

That final night before he'd left for Stanford had been for worse. Even now, several years on, Sam couldn't remember that night without feeling a raw pang hit him in the stomach. That look in Dean's eyes as Sam had begged him with his own to stand up for him, to protect him; the way Dean had looked at him, then looked away, leaving Sam at the mercy of their father's rage... Dean had always been Sam's protector – always – even when he'd shunned his feelings, and to have Dean side with their father, the man who had essentially ruined any hope of a normal life for his sons... it had been too much to bear. Leaving had been the only option. If he'd stayed, Sam couldn't have borne it.

It was freezing outside now, unsurprisingly, and Sam hugged himself, moving quickly on the spot to prevent himself getting pins and needles. He looked at his watch, and was surprised that it was nearly two in the morning. Suddenly he felt fatigued and yawned widely. Dean must be out cold by now, he deduced, and with some relief he trudged back to his odd little room, fervently hoping that Dean was asleep, not only because his recent thoughts had caused him extreme discomfort, but also because sometimes it was just nice to look at Dean while he was sleeping.

Once he'd made it back to the room, Sam slowly and deftly opened the door, being as quiet as humanly possible for someone so large. A sliver of light from the hallway cut across the room, and Sam couldn't help but smile to himself at the sight of Dean, who was splayed across his bed as if someone had picked him up like a ragdoll and dropped him there. His mouth was slightly open, revealing his very white, very even teeth. One arm was draped over his stomach in an unconsciously protective gesture, while the other dangled helplessly off the bed. He looked terribly young and innocent in his sleep, which Sam knew he definitely was _not_.

However, the illusion was nice, and Sam had no intention of ruining it with something as annoying as common sense.

Silently, he undressed, one eye always on his brother, making sure he was alright, transfixed by how beautiful he was. He remembered looking at Dean once when they were younger, thinking that he'd looked like a sleeping Apollo. Looking at him now, that thought still remained as violent as fresh as if it had been yesterday. He felt his stomach do an unsettling little quiver. Sam glowered at nothing in particular, and attempted to push the feeling down.

It was impossible.

He sat there for a long time, just watching Dean sleep. Part of him felt extraordinarily creepy at doing this, but Dean was like morphine to him. More and more he was becoming the reason to get up the morning, to smile during the day, and to sleep soundly at night. Every smug grin, every disgruntled look, every time Dean would sing along terribly to his favourite songs, every time he would get a bit of food on his face and not care, it made Sam's soul flare, like a star just about to die.

Sam remembered that look on the spirit's face, just after it had slashed Dean; that chilling smile. It had dominated his thoughts all evening, remembering that terrible grin, the hungry look it had given them as Dean had gasped and clutched at his torn skin. Sam didn't know if the spirit had intended to kill Dean or if it had just lashed out in a final moment of undead fury. It was just that it _smiled_ afterwards that bothered Sam. He recalled that split-second of mind-bending horror at the sight of his brother's blood dripping onto the forest floor, the looked of sheer shock on Dean's face as the blood drained from it.

Sam's eyes rested on Dean's face, now so different in sleep, so calm. All the shock and pain that had creased his perfect features earlier was completely gone, and he looked as guileless as a child.

_I could've lost him tonight_, thought Sam. _That thing was relishing the sight of me watching the person I love most die._

He had a brief, chilling mental image of Dean dying in the forest, his guts tumbling out of a gaping stomach wound, lying back on the ground, eyes wide and his breath making tiny ghosts in the cold night air. Sam imagined his own grief at the idea of being unable to save his brother, at having him die in the cold and the dirt, the green and black of the forest looming malevolently behind them, swallowing them whole.

Tears filled Sam's eyes and he blinked them away.

_This is stupid_, he thought. _I'm crying over something that hasn't even happened. If Dean could see me right now he'd just laugh in my face._

Sam lay his head down on the hard motel pillow, still facing Dean's sleeping, motionless form. He gave a deep sigh, partly of bitterness, partly at the intensity of the feelings he had for the golden man lying near him. It struck him as a painful melancholy, being this close and being so utterly unable to act on his feelings. The guilt hit him again, like a pistol whip to the back of the head.

_I'm so sorry, Jessica_, Sam thought miserably. Would she have seen this as a betrayal? Sam didn't know, and knew he never would. It was such an insubstantial thought, a pointless hypothetical situation, but nonetheless one that circled round and round through his tired head to the point of exhaustion. He could feel his eyelids getting heavy, and heard Dean shift slightly in his sleep. It was a strangely comforting sound, and one that helped to eclipse the image of the beautiful, dead blonde behind his eyes. Dean started to snore, and Sam grinned into the darkness, before feeling himself start to fade and fall down and down into the abyss of sleep.

* * *

They remained in the motel for several days, with Sam occasionally driving off in the Impala to fetch some real food. They got sick of the food in vending machines particularly fast, and Sam knew as well as Dean did that he would get stronger faster with real food. No one could exist on Twinkies and cups of coffee out of a machine for days in a row.

The wound healed better than Dean expected it to, and although it was still red and sore, it showed no indication of becoming infected or rejecting the stitches. However, Dean knew that there was no point in them doing any hunting until he could move without pain, and it was still causing him some discomfort. Sam got him some painkillers, which he gratefully accepted, but ever the stoic, Dean didn't take too many, preferring to just ride out the suffering instead of giving in and accepting that he genuinely was as frail and mortal as anybody else.

The incident in the woods had frightened Dean in a way that he didn't quite understand. It hadn't been anywhere near the first time he'd been injured on a hunt, but on those other times he'd had John with him. John was a seasoned hunter; tough and aloof. Nothing fazed him. It had been a world of difference having Sammy be the one to take the role of the protector, and it hadn't been something Dean was overly comfortable with. Sam was such a gentle person that it was hard to imagine him in any role other than that of the protected. Dean frowned to himself as he thought about it. It was hard, sometimes, to remember that Sam was a grown man now, and not the glancing-eyed boy he'd been before. Behind the eyes, Sam was old, and as much as Dean had to grudgingly admit it, he was as cool and solitary in his habits and tough as their Marine father was. That night in the forest had simply brought it down to earth, and cemented it uncomfortably but undeniably in the corridors of Dean's mind.

* * *

It was a midweek afternoon, and the day was dragging painfully. The weather outside was grim and dark, with heavy blankets of drizzle sloping slowly from the granite-coloured clouds. Dean peered out of the window, squinting towards the car park. Sam had taken the Impala into the nearest town to pick up some food and newspapers to read. Dean could tell Sam was bored, and felt strangely guilty about it. Sam had a naturally energetic, inquisitive mind, and being stuck in this cheap, depressing motel was obviously getting to him. Dean glared down at his bandaged stomach, willing it to hurry up and heal so they could get out of this dump.

He was bored too. It had been roughly a week since he'd been injured, and already Dean was itching to get back on the road, back behind the wheel of his beloved car, drumming relentlessly on the steering wheel while he sang along badly to Metallica. It would just be enough to leave this place and go around looking for their next hunt, just to have something to occupy their minds. Dean felt like he was going slowly insane in this strange red room. Sometimes, in his less lucid moments halfway between sleep and waking, he felt like he was lying on a bed of blood. Moments like that made him desperately want to leave.

Dean heard the rumble of the Impala on the gravel of the parking lot, and shot towards the window like an excited pet, wincing slightly at the dull pain that hissed through his stomach as he did so. He could see Sam's face, partially hidden by shadow, and set in hard lines. He looked tired and drained as he got out of the car, several papers under his arm, and a bag of food in his left hand. Dean felt his stomach fill with butterflies at the sight of him, at the intolerable sweetness of Sam's pessimistic expression. He wanted to kiss that expression off him, to bury it under his mouth.

Several moments passed, and finally the door clicked and in walked Sam, all six feet and four inches of him, hair tousled by the wind, and with dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping too well, apparently, thought Dean vaguely.

Wordless, Sam handed Dean a copy of Rolling Stone magazine, and then settled himself on his own bed, flicking through newspapers in the hope of finding something odd that they could track down. His right foot twitched relentlessly, back and forth. Dean watched it, torn between amusement and annoyance.

"Are you gonna be doing that all day?" said Dean, eyebrow raised, a sardonic grin playing on his face.

Sam turned his head slowly and gave Dean a mock-sneer. "I can't help it, man," he said. "I'm so bored here." His gaze dropped to Dean's waist. "How's it healing?"

Dean pulled up his shirt slightly. The bandage had been changed three times since it had first been stitched up. The new one had only been applied yesterday, and there was barely any blood staining it. Dean smiled at Sam. "Looks like it's doing pretty good," he said. "You did a good job."

Sam returned the smile. "Looks good," he said. "You're lucky you didn't have any muscle damage though."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know." He realised he was still holding his shirt up, and pulled it back down self-consciously, the expanse of pale, freckled skin disappearing back underneath the material.

Sam settled back down and sighed, pawing through the newspapers. Finally the rustling stopped, and Dean turned to see his brother staring intently at a news article. "What's that?" he asked, his interest perking up.

"A road in Georgia where people seem to be disappearing without a trace," Sam said. "There's never any sign of a struggle. They just disappear, cars left abandoned on the side of the road." He frowned. "Weird."

Dean nodded. "That is pretty weird. How far's it from here?"

"Pretty far," sighed Sam. "About a thousand miles. But I think we could make it within a week, if we drive real fast and avoid the cops." Dean nodded to himself, weighing up the situation, mind already on gas and what tape he was going to listen to. Sam could see this, and couldn't help but allow a little grin to spread across his lips. Once again, his eyes dropped to Dean's stomach. "You sure you're ready to get going though?" he said, eyes full of a puppyish concern, wide and unblinking. "I mean, you were pretty beat up. I don't want you ending up in the ER because it got infected or something."

"I'm fine, man, really," insisted Dean, face full of glee at the thought of being able to leave the motel. "I feel ok. I mean, it hurts a little, but nothing too bad. Besides," he said, moving his head to indicate towards his duffel bag. "We've got a ton of painkillers in there." He beamed at Sam, his smile dazzling. "I'm good to go."

Sam raised his eyebrows with surprise, but he guessed this was expected. Dean hated being cooped up, and so did he. They'd both be glad to get out on the open road, and Sam didn't care at all for the dark, suspicious looks that he got from the cantankerous motel owner, glaring daggers him behind his shabby, coffee-stained desk. Two young men, alone, in one room, for a whole week. It looked odd. Sam knew it as well as anyone. It was as if the locals could smell it; the smell of old sex, the whisper of feelings pushed down and down until they were turned to sediment, the soft hiss of testosterone that hung heavily in the air, always.

Sam felt invigorated by the thought of getting back in the Impala and driving into the distance, even though he felt bodily exhausted. Doing nothing left him grouchy and lethargic, not to mention the fact that he'd been staying up late watching Dean sleep; a fact that he liked to ignore in the cold light of day. But then, it'd been the same when they'd been young, before Stanford. He'd often stay up after sex, just watching Dean breathe deeply in his sleep, chest rising and falling, muttering unintelligible words, limbs utterly limp. Witnessing Dean like that, lost in his own dreams, relaxed and without any smart-ass remarks or bad innuendos was like looking at God. It had filled Sam with white light. It still did.

Sam yawned widely and Dean grimaced at the sight. "Look," said Sam. "I'm real tired. I think we should get one good night's sleep, rest up a bit, then leave early tomorrow morning. What do you think?"

"Sounds good to me, Sammy," said Dean, reaching into the shopping back and retrieving some unhealthy, greasy morsel. He took a wide bite of it, chewing with his mouth open, grinning toothily as he ate. He glanced with disdain around the room. "I'll be so fucking glad to get out of this shithole."

Sam snorted with laughter and laid back, arms behind his head, feeling as if he was already in Georgia, the road gaping, the sunset endless, while the wind whipped through his hair and into the hollow seashell of his ears.

* * *

They had risen the next morning in sleepy silence, dressing swiftly, stifling yawns as they made sure they'd packed everything. They drank cheap coffee from a machine, wordless, with dark circles under their eyes in the cold morning light, leaning on the Impala's hood. Dean seemed in good spirits, despite his tiredness. He had never been a morning person, and would have slept until the afternoon if Sam hadn't shaken him awake at a time that Dean referred to as "fuck o' clock".

Sam had attempted to insist that he was driving, but had been cut short by Dean instantly settling in the driver's seat, grinning a wolfish smile the moment he put his hands on the cold steering wheel. Sam had shrugged, with a short, barking laugh, and conceded that there was no point in trying to get between Dean and his Metallicar. Sam settled in the passenger seat, resting his long legs on the dashboard, and felt curiously happy at the sight of his brother drumming his long fingers relentlessly on the wheel, humming gleefully to Iron Maiden. If his stomach was causing him any pain, Dean hid it well.

The landscape sped past them, fields and woodland replaced by cities and towns, and then reverting back to fields and lonely farmsteads with sun-bleached wooden beams. Dean drove too fast, like he always did and Sam felt that tense grip in his stomach at the sound of the engine, like he always did. The terror of crashing and the feel of speed bloomed like a rose in his gut, thrilling and fearful.

"Goddamnit, Sammy," said Dean, and Sam could almost hear the smile in his tone. "I'm so glad to be back behind the wheel."

Sam turned his head and locked eyes with his brother, and they both grinned. Dean practically glowed. As far as Sam was aware, there was no place Dean was happier than behind the wheel of his car. A memory came to him unbidden, of the pair of them, years ago, limbs entwined, staring blissfully at one another, and Dean had muttered that he was happiest when they were together, like this. The poignancy of the memory struck like a stab, and Sam felt his smile dim a little. Dean didn't notice – he was too busy singing, glancing at the surrounding landscape, keeping an eye on the road to notice anything else.

It was an arduous drive, full of traffic jams on the freeway and bad weather, which irritated Dean to the point of distraction. He had stopped singing now, only speaking to shout obscenities at the visibility conditions and the rain. His mouth was set in a grim line, and Sam busied himself with the map so as not to annoy Dean further. He'd already snapped at Sam several times today. Sam had ignored them so far, but Dean was starting to annoy him. It wasn't Sam's fault that the weather was shitty, and he didn't appreciate being a scapegoat over something he had no control over.

"What turning am I meant to be taking?" Dean asked, his voice practically a growl.

Sam raised an eyebrow, but decided not to aggravate Dean further. He looked at the map, and then felt his stomach sink as Dean powered past the turning they were meant to take. "Uh, Dean," he said, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. "We just missed it. You drove past."

Dean gave Sam a look of intense annoyance. "Jesus Christ, Sam," he snapped. "You're meant to be reading the fucking map! Not staring at your own goddamn reflection in the mirror. Little bitch."

Sam glowered at Dean, his face flushing with irritation. "Dean, you can barely drive in these conditions anyway," he said. "It doesn't matter if you'd even gone down the turning because this weather's getting so bad that we'd have to stop soon anyway." Dean refused to look at Sam, his eyes firmly fixed on the road, trying to squint through the torrent of water that poured incessantly down his windscreen. "Dean," said Sam, his tone softer. "Let's just try to find somewhere to crash for the night." He looked at the quickly darkening sky. "It's gonna start getting dark soon, and there's no point in trying to drive in this weather."

Dean still refused to look in Sam's direction. He slowed down slightly, although he was visibly pissed off at having to do so. "Fine," he grunted. He threw Sam a patronising glare. "Try to find a motel on the map then. If you're _capable_ of it, that is."

Sam's bud of irritation burst into full bloom. He stared at Dean with an expression of loathing, sick of being used as Dean's verbal punch bag. "Dean, man, what the hell? I miss one turning and suddenly I'm a complete retard? You were driving too fast anyway – you would've missed the damn thing regardless!"

"You're meant to be in charge of directions, college boy," spat Dean. "I fucking drive, and I'm fucking tired. The least you can do is do your damn job like you're supposed to, like I do mine."

"Oh yeah," said Sam, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Driving too fast, getting pissy at the fucking weather – you're doing your job _real_ well, man." He made a dismissive noise. "I even offered to fucking drive, but you said no, so don't give me crap about you being tired when I tried to help!"

Dean's lip twitched with anger. "Shut up, Sam," he snapped. "I'm not in the mood for your shit."

"Well, I'm not in the mood for yours either. You've done nothing but talk to me like I'm a goddamn moron all day, and I'm sick of it."

Dean gave Sam a dangerous look. "Sick of it, huh?" he said, tone deadly. "Well, if you want, Sammy, you can fuckin' walk to the next motel."

"Maybe I will," countered Sam. "Being soaking wet and cold is better than being stuck in this car with your miserable ass."

Without any warning, Dean turned the car on to the side of the road and slammed on the breaks. Sam was surprised; they often bickered, but today had been particularly bad. Still, he hadn't expected Dean to just pull over. Sam looked at his brother, startled at the dark look Dean was giving him.

"What the hell, Dean?" said Sam, somewhere between incredulous and concerned.

"You wanna go? Go ahead and leave, Sam. Why change the habit of a fucking lifetime?"

Sam's mouth dropped open in a startled "o", hurt and anger written all over his tanned face. "What do you mean by that?" said Sam, voice barely audible. Dean glanced at his brother's large hands, and was surprised to see that they were curled into fists and shaking. He instantly regretted what he'd said, but kept his face passive.

Dean gave a sigh that could've been interpreted in any way. "I don't mean nothin' by it," he said, going to turn the ignition. Sam stopped him, grabbing his hand, and Dean blinked, taken aback.

"No," said Sam, his tone deadly and his eyes hard. "What did you mean by that, Dean?" He spat every syllable, and Dean had to hold back a wince.

Dean felt a flare of aggression mingled with years of suppressed feelings ignite in his gut and he flung Sam's hand off his own. "I meant what you think I meant," he hissed, his eyes narrowed. "You don't wanna do this job anymore, Sammy? Then you can just up and leave again, like you did last time."

Sam looked at Dean like he'd never seen him before, his eyes suddenly over-bright, struck with the memory of that awful night when he'd left home for Stanford, the night when he'd hoped against everything to have Dean stand up for him, to protect him against their father, but he hadn't. Dean's words were so like John's, each syllable a personal insult. Sam turned away from his brother, feeling physically sick, his mouth slightly open and aghast. Slowly, he gently opened the car door, grabbed his duffel bag and got out, shutting it behind him with a contemptuousness that would have been less offensive if he'd slammed it.

Dean watched him, feeling partly bitter and partly overwhelmed with regret. He paused, then got out of the car too, walking after his brother's retreating back. "Sammy!" he shouted. "Sam! Come back, man. I'm sorry, I didn't mean nothin' by it."

Sam didn't stop, or even turn around. He continued to trudge through the rain away from Dean, water dripping off the end of his fine nose, his hair already plastered to his skull. He vaguely heard Dean call after him, but the words were lost in the roar of the rain. Against his will, his lower lip quivered, suddenly transported back to his eighteen year old self, remembering that feeling of betrayal and heartbreak, knowing that that was the moment he had truly lost Dean, not just when his brother had stopped returning his love.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and stopped dead. He shook it off, knowing perfectly well who it was. Dean felt his brother stiffen under his touch, and withdrew his hand.

"Sammy," he said. "I'm sorry."

Slowly Sam turned around and looked at Dean. It was a sight so beautiful, so heart-shaking, that Sam momentarily forgot his deep anger. Dean was dripping with rain, and several droplets had landed on his long eyelashes, reflecting in his eye. He literally sparkled. His mouth was slightly open, and he was breathing hard. Sam swallowed the lump in his throat, and kept his gaze hard.

"Do you even know why I left, Dean?" Sam said, his tone measured, but his eyes like flint.

Dean exhaled. The rain had turned his blonde hair dark. Droplets slid uselessly off his leather jacket. "Because you wanted a normal life," he said dully.

Sam gave a mirthless laugh. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No, no, no."

"Why then?" said Dean, feeling his blood pressure begin to rise. He tried to control his tone, but failed. "Why'd you leave, Sam?" Suddenly Dean felt very young, like a wronged child.

Sam looked him straight in the eye, and Dean felt his heart thud in his throat at the sight of his brother, dripping wet, his hair absurd, hazel eyes reflecting green, like autumn reflecting spring.

"I left because of you," said Sam, suddenly looking a lot older than his twenty-two years. He gave a deep, shuddering sigh, a sigh that went down to the marrow. "I left because one minute everything was wonderful between us, and then the next you cast me aside, just like one of your fucking _girls_."

Dean looked away. Sam's hard, bitter expression was too much to take. Being faced with the evil of what he had done was something he had hoped he'd never have to deal with again. Every hug that was brushed aside, every time he had deliberately slept with someone else to push Sam away, to protect him, came flooding back, each memory as devastating and brutal as a blow to the head.

"I left because of that, Dean," continued Sam, relentless, his lower lip shaking in earnest now. "How the fuck was I meant to react? To just go back to how things were before? Like that wouldn't have killed me? You have no idea how hard it was. You've got no idea how fucking _alone_ you made me feel. And then when I got into Stanford, and told Dad, all I wanted was for you to stand up for me, to tell Dad that it didn't mean I was a coward or that I was abandoning you both." His voice shook. "It was just _too hard_. It was much too fucking hard." He ran a hand across his face, and it trembled. "I don't even know what I did wrong, Dean." He looked at Dean again, and his gaze was so terrible and sad that Dean felt his heart would break.

Dean swallowed, and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. This time Sam didn't stiffen. He was practically limp, swept away by his own unhappiness.

"Dad knew, Sam," he said. Sam blinked, startled.

"What?"

"He knew. He saw us. Once." Dean breathed, recalling that hideous moment. He shuddered. Sam's eyes were fixated on his own, his expression one of abject horror, but a strange understanding dawning on his face. "He beat the crap outta me, Sam. He said that if I went near you again, he'd throw us both out. I didn't want to do that to you. I figured..." He swallowed again, trying to maintain composure. "I figured that if I just _stopped_, I'd be protecting you, making sure you weren't fucked up." He paused and thought about it. "Well, _more_ fucked up." Dean sighed. "It broke my fucking heart, Sam."

Sam looked shell-shocked, his hands knotted in his soaking hair. He seemed to be lost for words.

Dean felt his stomach flip. "I never stopped loving you, Sam," he blurted out. He could feel a rush of blood storming towards his cheeks, and averted his gaze. "I never stopped because I didn't love you. I did it to protect you."

Sam gawped at him, his eyes suddenly demon-dark. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning. Dean felt nervous, and sick. He expected Sam to turn and walk away, spitting blood with disgust.

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but was apparently overcome with an emotion that Dean couldn't place. "All this time," Sam eventually struggled out. "I thought..." He turned away, covering his mouth, eyes screwed tightly shut against the barrage of emotion that was threatening to overwhelm him. He felt dizzy. To know that all this time Dean had not only reciprocated his feelings, but had distanced himself _because_ he loved him, turned his world upside down and inside out. Suddenly every iota of pain he had felt, every night he had stayed awake watching Dean sleep, every dazzling smile that he committed to memory seemed justified, crystallized, perfect.

"I thought you were ashamed," Sam finally said.

Dean shook his head, his features pained and serious. "Sammy, what we did was fucked up, there's no denying that." Sam nodded. "But I don't regret a single second of it." Dean's look hit Sam as hard and sweet as a shot of pure honey to the heart. His breath was taken away.

"I don't regret it either," he said. He realised he was shivering. Dean stretched out an arm, and put his hand on Sam's back. A frisson of electricity danced between them, and neither dared to look the other in the face.

"You're freezing, Sam," said Dean.  
Sam nodded mutely, and allowed himself to be led back to the Impala like a wayward child, shaking slightly against the cold and the damp. Sam sat heavily in the passenger seat, still shell-shocked, his brain short-circuiting against all the information he'd just been fed. Their father had known, Dean had never stopped loving him, neither of them regretted it. The proverbial elephant in the corner had finally been acknowledged, after months of stress and fear and bitterness, cleverly concealed behind a facade of brotherly back-slapping and crude jokes. They had both known deep down that they could never go back to being just brothers. They had overstepped some invisible but strangely tangible line a long time ago, and once stepped over, you could never return. Sam wasn't even sure if he would choose to take it all back if he could. He leant his head back, eyes half closed, lost in thought.

* * *

Dean drove to a motel without a word. Sam wasn't even aware that Dean was driving until they'd been back on the road for a few minutes, so utterly lost in his own head as he was. They didn't speak as they entered the motel and paid for a room. Sam had to practically be dragged by Dean, still in a state of complete bewilderment, but his expression now void of anger or stress. He almost looked like he was in a trance.

Once inside, Sam lay down with a thump on one of the twin beds, staring at the ceiling. A slow smile was beginning to spread across his tanned, lovely face and Dean couldn't pretend not to notice. He chose not to say anything, and instead began to change out of his sopping wet clothes, leaving them in a trail across the bedroom. He could feel Sam's eyes on him, and felt a coil of lust form in his lower belly. Without a word, he slipped into his own bed, avoiding eye contact with Sam. Eventually, he couldn't ignore him any longer, and turned to stare at him. He felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. Sam's hair had partially dried, and stood up, his curls absurd and disordered around his dark, high-cheekboned face. He was beautiful. A beautiful creature, all long limbs and wild hair. Dean felt his mouth go dry.

Slowly, with a catlike grace that shocked him, Sam sat up, and began to remove his sodden shirt and jeans, all the while staring at his brother, his pupils massive and dark in his eye sockets. He blinked, slowly, almost mockingly, and Dean felt a stab of lust in his groin. This time there was no shame, and he felt baffled and thrilled.

Sam was down to his underwear, and continued to stand there, staring at his brother with such an intensity that Dean could feeling himself begin to throb, full of nerves, on end with anticipation. He averted his gaze, feeling bashful. Sam moved towards him, still with that elegant grace that was all his own, and sat next to Dean on his bed. He didn't take his eyes of his brother once.

"Sammy," Dean said, his voice low, and dark with lust.

"Dean," replied Sam, tone husky, and grinning like a shark.

Dean didn't know what to say. Green eyes locked on hazel, and everything was suddenly lost to the moment. Everything ceased to exist. All there was, for that moment, were two men, their heartbeats thudding like war drums and a need that was so intense that it was palpable. Dean's eyes were half-closed. Sam smelled of damp wool, of sweat, of a certain type of shaving foam that he used. He smelled clean and dirty. Dean felt his pulse throb uncomfortably in his cock, and pulled at the duvet, not wanting Sam to know how aroused he was without even being touched.

Sam's breathing was heavy. Slowly, almost painfully slow, he tilted his head, and bumped his nose against Dean's. Dean's mouth fell open slightly as he attempted to control his breathing. Adrenaline flooded his veins. He felt lightheaded, and opened his eyes wide to look into Sam's.

"Do you want this?" he whispered, his voice shaking slightly.

Sam nodded fervently, biting his lip. "Yes," he almost hissed. "God, Dean, so much." He ran a big hand through Dean's still-damp hair, and Dean twisted into the touch, gasping.

Sam gripped Dean's hair and tilted his face up to meet his. Their lips met, and Dean could no longer control his breathing, ragged gasps escaping his lips. Sam held Dean's face in his hands, running his hands over the curves and bumps of his brother's face, relishing the taste of Dean's mouth. He tasted of coffee and smelt of gasoline, so masculine that it hurt. They lay together, devouring each other's mouths, gasping and whispering into each kiss, gripping one another's hair and skin, nipping at the skin on their necks and shoulders, groaning.

Sam looked down, to see the bulge in his brother's boxers and grinned. Dean flushed red, but grinned back wolfishly. Sam reached down, torturously slow, slipping his hand under the waistband of Dean's boxers. Dean moaned, and hissed, "Oh, Sammy..."

Sam ran his hand down Dean's swollen length, eliciting more moans as he traced his way back up, before gripping Dean's cock hard, moving the taut skin up and down, relishing the view of Dean's expression, eyes shut, mouth open, groaning under his touch. Sam bit his lip, eyes full of desire for the beautiful Adonis next to him. He ran his fingers over the slit of Dean's cock, and Dean gave a haggard gasp, eyes suddenly wide and staring up into the face of his brother, his lover.

"I missed this," Sam whispered throatily. Dean couldn't even reply, so lost as he was in his own brother's eyes, lost in the feeling of Sam touching him. It all felt like a dream, a wonderful, terrible dream. His bones ached for Sam, for every inch of him. He wanted to lose himself in Sam.

Sam leaned away, and Dean blinked in surprise, keening slightly at the loss of touch. Sam hushed him, smiling, and came back to him moments later, a small tube in his hand. Dean recognised what it was instantly, and felt his pulse quicken. Sam squeezed a pearl of lube on to his hand, and removed the blanket from the bed. He arranged himself between Dean's legs, and watched how his brother's breathing increased, his face flushed and his emerald eyes shadowed. Slowly he reached between Dean's legs, stroking his ass. Dean gasped, and Sam hushed him again.

"It's ok, relax."

Dean nodded, eyes shut, pliant as a lamb. Sam brushed his slippery fingers across the tight ring of muscle, listening to his brother's little noises, feeling himself get almost uncomfortably hard. He slipped a finger inside, and felt the muscle tighten around his finger. Dean was tight, very tight. It had been a long time since this had happened to him. Sam moved his finger gently at first, searching for the little kiss of flesh that turned his brother to liquid gold. Eventually, Dean gave a wild sob of pleasure, and Sam knew he'd found it. He ran his finger over Dean's G-spot, feeling almost trance-like at the sounds of his brother's voice, gasping and hiccupping with pleasure. He inserted a second finger into Dean, stretching him, and Dean's noises became more erratic, more needy. Dean clawed at Sam's tanned torso, biting his lip.

"Sammy," he panted. "Oh God, Sam, please, I want it so bad. I want you. Please, please."

Sam smiled, eyes almost demon-black, his smile predatory. He leant down, and ran his tongue across Dean's red, quivering cock. Dean cried out. "Please, please," he begged, near weeping.

Sam slipped in a third finger, and Dean was putty in his hands, writhing on the bed, sweat on his brow. He clawed towards Sam's own cock, and Sam groaned as his brother stroked his throbbing member.

"Dean," he uttered throatily. "Want you so bad... gotta have you..." Dean nodded, wordless, on the verge of sobbing. Sam withdrew his fingers from Dean's ass, and Dean experienced a feeling like loss, almost driven wild with desire. Sam had never done it like this before. Dean had always been the one in charge. It was a whole new experience and he felt nervous, bewildered, but elated. He couldn't have stopped Sam if he'd wanted to.

Sam squeezed more lube into his hand and ran it over his cock, shivering with anticipation. He positioned himself over Dean, moving his brother's legs far apart, blown away by Dean's fair beauty, wanting to kiss every freckle, every eyelash, to bury himself in his brother and lose himself entirely. Slowly he pushed the blunt head of his cock against Dean's ass, and began to move himself inside. Dean bit his lip, his expression somewhere between intense discomfort and arousal. Sam pushed himself inside gently, not wanting to hurt his brother. Dean was so tight, so hot, and his muscles milked Sam's cock in such a way that for a moment he could barely move.

Dean rested an arm on Sam's hip, pulling him forward, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"Please Sam," he gasped, hoarsely. "I want you in me, wanna feel you..." Sam moaned at his brother's words, and thrust shallowly. Dean hissed, caught between pleasure and pain, unsure which sensation was stronger. Sam thrust again, and Dean made himself relax. Another thrust, and pleasure finally overtook pain. Dean groaned desperately, arching his back, neck bent back, helpless with lust.

Sam stared awe-struck at Dean, feeling wave after wave of pleasure course through his veins as he thrust again and again. Suddenly, he struck that golden point again, and Dean cried out.  
"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh Sammy," he wept, his muscles tightening around Sam's cock. "Right there, right there. Don't stop, Sammy, oh my fucking God, don't stop."

Sam thrust into his brother hard, feeling Dean convulse and weep underneath him, his face flushed red, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, completely at the mercy of Sam's cock. Dean's cries became more and more desperate, and he clutched at Sam's torso, leaving nail marks, tiny beads of blood filtering through the delicate layer of skin. Sam groaned, loving the feeling of mingled pain and soul-crushing pleasure. He could feel his orgasm beginning to build, and slammed into Dean hard. Dean's inner muscles began to contract wildly, and Sam knew that Dean was close.

"Come for me, baby," snarled Sam, bruising Dean's lips in a hard kiss. "Come for me, I wanna see you come." Sam angled himself and hit Dean's G-spot one last time, and Dean's eyes shot wide open, and he came, hard, all over his stomach and chest. The sight of Dean's face, contorted with the power of his orgasm, those perfect lips curled back, his green eyes suddenly black was too much, and Sam came violently, pumping Dean full of white fluid, his head swimming. He felt he would pass out. Slowly he withdrew himself from his brother's body, shaking as if he was in a blizzard, his body coated with sweat, his face glowing and radiant, and lay next to Dean, staring at him as if he hadn't seen him in years.

Sam felt chewed from the inside out, like God had spat him out reborn. Dean was still breathing hard, quaking from the intensity of his orgasm. He weakly turned and looked at Sam, and a smile spread across his breathtaking face. It wasn't a smile of smugness, or the smile that one sometimes saw after an incredible fuck – it was the smile of someone truly content, of someone hopelessly, incurably in love. He practically glowed. Sam ran a hand across his cheek, astonished by the rays of love bursting from his chest, everything encompassed in a beautiful, drowsy brightness.

"I love you," whispered Sam.

Dean's smile only grew broader. "I love you too, Sammy," he said. He pulled Sam towards him, wrapping his arms around him, aware that they had destroyed any hope of ever having a normal relationship with anyone again, but simply not caring. Nothing that felt this wonderful, this soul-shattering, could ever truly be wrong. Even if they would go to Hell for this, they knew without any shadow of doubt that every moment of torture and suffering would be worth it.

There were no more words. Just smiles, and touches, and little whispers in the dark, and the indescribable feeling of two bodies fitting together perfectly, as if they had been intended to since before their souls even came into being. It made no sense, and yet made perfect sense, in the way that only they could. The paradox of brothers who were lovers. No sense, and perfect sense. A lack of normality that ached in its beauty and terror.

That night Sam had the first good sleep he'd had in years. Laid in his brothers arms, sticky with sweat and semen, listening to him breathe was the most devastatingly wonderful thing he could envisage. He felt that he could die happy, as long as he was with his brother. It was a cruel thing that the one person in the world who he loved and adored more than anyone else was Dean, but as long as it made them both happy, so full of white light, he felt it was irrelevant. He would never love anyone the way he loved Dean. No one would ever come close. It was both a blessing and a curse.

The next morning was like a whole new world. For several moments they'd simply gawped at each other, dumbfounded and blessed, then they'd laughed.

"Man, I forgot what sharing a bed with you was like," teased Dean. "I swear you're ninety percent legs."

Sam laughed. "And the left over ten percent?"

"Elbows."

They'd dissolved into blissful, unselfconscious laughter, before diving into the shower to remove the smell of sex and sweat. They had been almost unbearably tender that morning, in contrast to the night before, Dean kissing Sam all the way down to his groin, gently kissing his hipbone and the scratches he'd made last night, while Sam arched into the kiss, dopamine like glitter in his arteries.

They couldn't stay long and they knew it. They had to get to Georgia. There were people they needed to protect. It was them against the world. They felt as if they could take on anything.

Dean drove, of course, and Sam sat, pretending to read the map, but stealing glances at his wide-eyed brother instead, dissolving into smiles. On a deserted stretch of road, Dean leaned across and pulled Sam to him, fingers tangled in his wild dark mop of hair. He laid a kiss as serene as an orchid, as gentle as a butterfly's wing, on Sam's forehead, and Sam closed his eyes with the joy of it.

Sam watched the late afternoon sun dip towards the earth, casting a low, golden light over everything, bathing the brothers. He sighed, content, all the raging voices in him now silent. He looked at Dean, golden, a Kansas-born Apollo, his perfect lips tilted in a crescent smile that cut him like a lovely knife, leaving scars all over his self, the essence of what made Sam who he was. He leaned back into his seat, feeling his muscles relax, turning to molten gold. He was sated.

It felt very peaceful.

* * *

_And there we go! Done. I hope you enjoyed it. =) Reviews are much appreciated._

_~Lux_


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